


The Black Prom Incident

by strangeandinteresting



Category: Hatchetfield Universe - Team StarKid
Genre: AGAIN CHAPTER 13, Blood, Bullying, Child Abuse, Child Death, Emetophobia, I just wanna be careful, Multi, Religious Fanaticism, Religious Guilt, The graphic violence tag will only apply to chapter 13, chapter 13 is a lot, even then it's not gonna be too bad, suicide baiting, thats also in 13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:02:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 27,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24698761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangeandinteresting/pseuds/strangeandinteresting
Summary: HATCHETFIELD CARRIE AUWednesday 20th June 2018, 18:25It has been over 20 years since the Black Prom Incident in the tiny town of Hatchetfield. Though the case had long since been closed, one General McNamara seeks to find the truth about the incident, and hears the entire story for the first time.(Warning; This work will be tonally closer to the original Carrie, and I cannot promise there will be many reprieves from the bad things happening. Please use discretion when reading.)
Relationships: Charlotte/Ted (The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals), Gary Goldstein/Linda Monroe, Paul Matthews/Emma Perkins, Sam/Zoey (The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals)
Comments: 69
Kudos: 80





	1. The Opening of the case of The Black Prom Incident

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to this! It's honestly such a self-indulgent AU, and I don't expect many people to read this fic, but any nice comments, speculation, and suggestions are totally welcome! The 'Carrie' plot is mostly based on the musical as it's easier to structure it based on songs, but I may also draw aspects from different adaptions as well as the original source material.

_Wednesday 20th, June 2018. 18:25._

“I don’t understand why you’re inquiring into this, General. The case was closed just over twenty years ago - it dealt with itself.”

McNamara stubbed out his cigarette, flicked it to the ground, and crushed the smoldering embers underfoot, giving a sigh. It wasn’t that Schaffer’s questioning was unwarranted. John knew he had no reason to reopen the case of the Black Prom. It didn’t need explaining; The residents of Hatchetfield handled it, and whatever threat there was didn’t ever leave the town. But leaving it at that? It didn’t sit right with him. There was more to all of this. 114 residents of that tiny town reported dead, many of them teenagers… That didn’t just happen without any serious reason.

“Colonel, if I let this go unanswered any longer, I will be doing- ...I will be doing the world a disservice.” The grim and yet determined tone in his voice was enough to shorten her response to a curt nod, as the two entered the building, the fluorescent light stinging his eyes in comparison to the gray beginnings of a storm outside. 

The two walked in silence for a minute, until they reached the door they were looking for, an interview room. Behind the glass in the door - a two way mirror - sat a man in his late thirties. He looked tired, and a little bit frightened.

“General-”

  
  
“Yes?” he cut in quickly, unusually on-edge.

Schaffer paused before responding, lowering her voice. “He has promised he’ll tell the whole story, and the whole truth,” she spoke slowly, carefully, “Don’t push him. Whatever he’s about to tell you appears to have caused him a severe amount of emotional and mental trauma. Good luck.” 

With another one of her curt nods, she disappeared down the hallway, McNamara could swear she left with haste.

The door creaked as McNamara opened it, kicking it closed again in one swift action, startling the man sat at the interview table. “Gotta ask building maintenance to have a look at that,” he thought, sitting down opposite the man and rifling through the papers, not yet looking him in the eye. The man remained silent.

“Your name is Bill Woodward, is that correct?”

“It is, sir.” 

He sounded meek, like a mouse caught in a trap. He looked at McNamara with something that almost resembled sadness, but the emotion was concealed under the normalcy Bill was attempting to muster, despite the situation. In a way, the General almost respected that. 

“Good. Bill, it says here in these records that you were present at Hatchetfield High’s senior prom on the night of Saturday 28th April 1990, ground zero of this quote unquote ‘mysterious’ disaster that killed every teenager who was present at said prom.” His eyes burned into Bill’s, desperately searching for the truth in them. Bill said nothing, and so McNamara returned to the paper, his free hand a clenched fist. “But you lived. You lived, and you, including the remaining citizens, stayed there, and said nothing. Why?”

Bill’s hands were shaking as he heaved a sigh, as if even just doing that simple action was painful. He leaned forward in his seat, placing both arms on the table. “I can tell you the whole story.” 

McNamara looked up, his breath caught in his throat. This was it, the truth he had been looking for. 

“I didn’t know it at the time, but over the years, I gathered up every detail about what led to… This. That’s why I came.” 

Bill sat back again, unblinking. McNamara nodded, and the two were silent for a few heavy moments, the air thick enough to choke on.

“Just one more question, Bill,” he asked quietly. “...Paul Matthews.”

Bill flinched, as if McNamara had drawn his gun.

“What do you know about him?”

Bill’s jaw clenched.

“...Are you going to answer me, or are you just going to keep staring at the floor, Bill?”

He looked up at McNamara, looking shakier than ever. “I knew him in high school… Never even talked to the guy until… All this.”

McNamara got to his feet, and began to pace. The plot had thickened in an interesting way. Paul Matthews was amongst the dead in the incident, but his case was an interesting one. Unlike all the other 17 and 18 year olds who perished, his body wasn’t found at the highschool - he was found in his own family home. That was the reason his name stuck out to McNamara. Just like how Bill’s survival puzzled him, as did the inconsistency of Mr. Matthews’s location upon his death.

“Like I said, I know what happened. Can I… Tell you from the start?” Bill offered, almost sounding relieved that he was finally getting this off his chest.

The General pulled out a second cigarette and lit it, taking a puff, and taking his seat.

“If you know the whole story, then P.E.I.P. needs to hear it.”

The man gave a nod and began. “The whole thing started and ended during the week the prom took place.” He folded his arms, “After gym, on Monday afternoon, that’s when it all started. We had our Biology Professor as a substitute teacher...”

McNamara sat back in his seat. Finally, he would find out what happened that night. 

Finally, he’d get closure.


	2. Father, Mother, Preacher, Teacher, Failure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monday 23rd April 1990, 14:18
> 
> Where it all began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So first of all, wow! Thank you guys all so much for the kind comments, and I saw a few of you even bookmarked it! It seriously warmed my heart that so many people seem interested in what I'm writing as a passion project. I'm not a fic writer usually, I'm more of an artist, but writing used to be a passion of mine and I wanted to revisit it at some point with a premise that interested me. I hope you all enjoy this chapter of the story! 
> 
> Also, big props to aspiringaspie for being my editor and helping me come up with ideas to spice up the chapters, I couldn't be doing this without their help. Go give their Wiggly!Paul AU a read ;)

_Monday 23rd, April 1990. 14:18._

“For god’s sake, Henry! What got into them?”

Hidgens shook his head, trying to figure that out for himself. This was why he preferred his own classroom - putting students in a position where they governed themselves was always a recipe for disaster. When the hell was the _actual_ substitute going to show up to reprieve him of this wretched position? _Just my luck,_ he thought, _I step away for five minutes and the hell that is teenage drama breaks loose._

Without a satisfying response from the biology professor, Davidson continued. “He’s _seventeen years old_ , you’d think he would know what- …” He paused, embarrassed to discuss the issue, before continuing a little more delicately, “Didn’t he attend all of his classes faithfully? How come he missed Sex Ed?”

“He _would_ have, but his _mother_ ” - Henry said the word with a distinct venom - “sent in a letter forbidding him from the lessons.” 

Even if Biology was never his own first passion, he understood it well enough to know that lessons like that were ones that you couldn’t skip. It wasn’t like learning cell mitosis, or energy cycles. This was vital education that applied to anyone. 

“So he sat them all out in the study hall. When I tried to explain that nothing was wrong with him, he looked so confused, as if I was talking about a completely different species.”

The whole thing had completely baffled the two of them, and left them at a loss of what to do. As usual, Linda Monroe was the ringleader of the stunt. She had probably made her way into the boys’ locker room with the help of one of the boys in her posse - she surrounded herself with them more than her peers, for whatever reason - and Hidgens found her at the center of a sizeable group of students, all shouting really _awful_ things at the poor boy, who was curled up in terror under the still pouring head of the shower, flinching as if their words were physical strikes. Words that Hidgens were sure their parents had inadvertently taught them, _painfully_ familiar words.

What happened before he stepped in to stop it, though, was what _really_ caught his interest.

The very second the boy screamed at the crowd to stop, and what a _pitiful_ noise that was, the lightbulb above him shattered. Completely exploded. Many others would call it a coincidence, but Hidgens didn’t want to be so quick to dismiss it. The timing was too perfect. It didn’t seem like a coincidence. That was the main reason they were waiting for him, actually. After Paul Matthews was dressed, he had to go to the nurse’s office to get some of the cuts from the falling glass patched up, as well as to calm down. He was still in a terrified daze last time Hidgens saw him.

“I think he should be sent home. It’s close enough to the end of the day, anyway, and he’s in shock. Wouldn’t take in any of his last class,” Hidgens stated bluntly, to which Davidson nodded, and pulled out the papers to excuse the student’s absence. After a few uncomfortable moments, there was a knock at the door.

“Come in!” A certain friendliness returned to the school principal’s face as the door was tentatively pushed open, and in stepped the subject of the discussion.

Paul Matthews was tall and lanky, though his shy demeanor made him seem a lot smaller, and always seemed to look slightly tired and unkempt. His eyes were wide and staring, his hair still slightly damp from the incident, and there were a few little red cuts on his cheeks from the glass, as well as a few on his neck. His shoulders were drawn up anxiously, and he said nothing. That wasn’t much of a change, the boy never spoke much to begin with, but after what had happened to him today, the silence felt a little more weighty than usual. Hidgens stood back to give him a little more space as he shuffled into the room.

“How are you feeling, Paul?” Davidson asked, clearly trying his best to cheer the boy up. 

He hesitated before replying. “...fine.” 

Paul’s response was only barely above a whisper, and choked with a voice crack.

“You can go home for the rest of the day, Paul,” Hidgens mustered all the kindness he could in his voice, something he was well aware he was _terrible_ at. Still, he had to at least try. 

Davidson held out the slip, Paul took it, and was gone before anything else could be said. Almost as soon as the door closed, the principal’s face dropped again.

* * *

_Monday 23rd, April 1990. 14:20._

“Okay, okay, okay, okay.”

Paul put his hands through his hair, pushing it out of his face. _It could really use a cut_ , he observed, looking at himself in the mirror of the school bathroom. His heart still thudded in his chest from everything that had gone on, but he wasn’t crying anymore. That was fine, that was the last thing that the student population needed to see again. 

“Okay, okay, I’m fine, I’m okay,” he reassured himself aloud, taking deep breaths. _Ground yourself, Paul. You’ll be okay._

Honestly, looking back, the whole thing seemed weird. He hadn’t even done anything before he heard someone talking to him, then talking at him, and then there were _multiple people_ , which was already just a little bit uncomfortable. He was in the shower, that was private. But it was okay, that was normal. Someone threw something at his head. It wasn’t heavy, it didn’t hurt, but it was followed by the noise getting louder, everyone there closing in. That was normal. Why had he started crying? _You were just being ridiculous, Paul. They weren’t really doing anything outside the norm. You’ve dealt with it before._

But it didn’t feel normal, he felt threatened, he felt like they were going to hurt him. The lightbulb shattering above him shut them up, and he was saved from the situation.

“Jesus…” He took a shuddering breath, deciding reliving the event in his head wasn’t the best thing to do when he was trying to feel better, “Jesus…please, lend me your strength, and forgive them, they didn’t know what they were doing.”

_What is Jesus really going to do for you?_

His faith was all he could cling to at a time like this. He didn’t really have friends. Somehow, he always managed to drive them off. It was either that, or nobody dared to be friends with him, not when it was well known that Paul Matthews was a fucking weirdo. He didn’t know how to talk to people, he acted like a jerk for no reason, and he cared too much about what God and his mother thought. _Goddamn freak,_ they’d sneer. His mother always said that the suffering he endured was good for him, that it built his character, but even if that was true, it still hurt, it _really_ hurt.

“Well, might as well make use of this,” he sighed, glancing down at the note in his hand, the neat handwriting of the school principal having smudged slightly. He always found comfort in the solitude of his home.

The hallways of the school were virtually abandoned, but there were noises coming from the classrooms. Mostly teachers - at this time of the day, pretty much every student had zoned out. He walked past the doors quickly, because he knew that if they weren’t paying attention to the lesson, they’d pay attention to literally anything else, and that was going to be him if he was noticed. He really didn’t want round two of that ordeal. All he needed to do was get his books from his locker, and get out of there.

_His locker._

Paul’s heart sank as he came upon it. _Paul Matthews eats shit._ Scrawled across the locker in- what was that? 

... _Lipstick_. 

“Wow, Linda’s not even being subtle about it now?” he said to himself defeatedly, opening it up and taking what he needed. _Just forget about it, tomorrow is another day._ _Just go home like they said to._

The fresh mid-spring air felt great, it felt _really_ great, and the yard was mercifully empty as he crossed it. School wouldn’t actually let out for another half-hour or so. He smiled to himself, pretty happy about all of that. For once, he could get home in _peace_. 

“ _Okay_ ...this wasn’t so bad. Suffering is good for the soul,” Paul convinced himself, crossing the yard quickly, like he always did. “I _will_ be okay.”


	3. Lust was how the sin began

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul goes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Sorry for taking so long with this, I've been busy through the week, but here's the long-awaited Chapter 3! This is the first chapter where the warning tags really apply, so this is a serious warning to turn back now if you are sensitive to what is in the tags, as pretty much all of the tags show. I am so sorry for Paul in this chapter ;u;

_Monday 23rd, April 1990. 3:39._

A hymn carried itself out of the doors of the house as Paul approached it. She was singing, and that was always a sign that she was in a good mood. When she was in a good mood, he was comforted. 

“ _Your grace has brought me up from the deep, your mercy, O Lord, has saved me from the flame_ ,” his mother’s voice continued the song as he stepped across the threshold, her voice like sweet honey, “ _I will worship you with all that have left inside me, your love has delivered me from myself._ ” 

“Mama, I’m home,” he chirped.

The woman at the kitchen table startled for a second, but smiled upon seeing her son, her eyes lighting up. 

“There’s my precious boy! How was school today, Paul?” She set her sewing down on her lap, the dusty pink and silky fabric trailing down her legs. She looked a lot like her son: tall and slender, but in a far less awkward way, a pair of round glasses slightly magnifying her eyes.

Though Paul had considered telling her about what happened that day when on the way home from school, he decided at that moment that it wouldn’t really be worth it. 

“It was fine,” he lied, and then, eyeing the fabrics, asked, “What are you working on?”

“Oh, this?” She drew the rest of the fabric up onto the table, depositing it there for the time being. “Well, as I was closing up the shop, I got a last minute call in the form of Priscilla Monroe, asking for a prom dress for her daughter, Linda. She’s in your grade, isn’t she Paul?” 

He seriously considered piping up, but decided to keep his silence. After all, the Monroes were a rich family. The money would help them a lot, even if it was from someone he despised. Still, he really didn’t need to hear this right now, not after today, and backed up to the stairwell, subconsciously tugging on his sleeves. 

_All I ask for is an escape from her. Why this?_

“Well, at first I told her to come in tomorrow, but she told me she’d pay double — can you imagine that, _double!_ — if I had it done by tomorrow evening. So, of course, I said yes.”

His foot rested on the first step, itching to scramble up the rest of them and escape the conversation. “That’s nice, Mama.”

“It is, my light, it is.” She picked the sewing back up, and set back to work. “Dinner will be ready soon, go wash up and be back down in five minutes, okay?”

“Okay.”

With her permission, Paul darted upstairs to the bathroom and started running the sink. _It’ll all be fine, she’ll never know,_ he thought rather happily as he washed his hands, catching sight of himself in the mirror. 

Okay, he didn’t look that bad. This was fine. After tonight, even if the rest of the student body couldn’t forget it, he knew he could forget it. Or, rather, he’d just let it blend in with everything else that had happened over the years in his memory, which was a tidier solution than actually telling someone. Sure, the anti-bullying campaigns at school always taught him to tell someone, to tell a responsible adult, but he had tried that and it didn’t really help. So he turned to God, and God said to take it on the chin, to turn the other cheek. 

“Paul? Come downstairs. Now.”

His head shot up. He turned the faucet off. The cheer in his mother’s voice was gone. Was he in trouble for something? 

“But I didn’t _do_ anything…” he mumbled, almost inaudibly, frantically running through everything he’d done recently. Nope, there was nothing.

“ _Paul._ ”

“Coming, Mama.” 

His heart now thumped against his ribs as he descended the stairs, each creak of the wood feeling like a target was being painted on his back. She sounded dead serious. When he finally reached the bottom, after what felt like hours, his mother was no longer elegantly perched on her seat, but facing away from him, her shoulders oddly hunched, poring over a book. 

_The Holy Bible_. 

“I got a call from your principal just now, Paul.”

He stayed silent, fidgeting with his hands.

“You lied to me. Not only did you lie, you lied to hide your _sin_ from me.”

There it was again, that awful, awful word. Half the time he didn’t even realise he’d done anything before his mother would pull it out. After all these years, he would think he had learned what was right and what was wrong, but he was always slipping up, always a sinner, always wrong, wrong, _wrong._

“ _Do you not know that the wicked will not inherit the kingdom of God?”_

“Mama, I didn’t do anything wrong,” he protested quietly, trying to recall the verse she was quoting. It wasn’t familiar. “I was just in the shower after gym, and-and—”

“ _Do not be deceived!_ ” She spun around, and darted towards him at such a pace that startled him backwards, looking so fierce and strange. Though this was the writing of God, when it came from her mouth, it sounded like the voice of Satan. She continued to roar, “ _Neither the sexually immoral, nor idolaters nor adulterers, nor male prostitutes—”_

“Mama, _I didn’t do anything wrong!”_ he wailed as she grabbed his wrist and pulled it, hard, sending him stumbling to the floor. “I-It was Linda, Mama, it was Linda— _no, please! No—!”_

The woman gave another hard pull, and began to drag him across the floor, the linoleum burning his back. “Mama, _please!_ ”

_“NOR HOMOSEXUAL OFFENDERS, NOR THIEVES—”_

_“I don’t understand, Mama!”_

She paused and let go, sending him sprawling. 

“Then _understand_ , Paul, _understand!_ ” She sounded almost mournful, and yet he could not help but cower at her feet, fearing that any other action would bring down further wrath, “They hurt you because your heart — I see it, Paul, _I see it!_ — it is clouded with evil! You are becoming a man, Paul! And as a man you are wicked! Lust is _enveloping you!”_

He clasped his hands over his ears, hot tears trickling down his face. “Mama, please…” he whimpered. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, _I’m sorry…_ ” 

The fire that had been burning in him, that pushed him to protest, seemed to be fully drained as soon as she let go. All his energy was gone, just like that.

“Sorry does me no good, child,” she growled, standing up straight, and strolling past him, the hot rage dissipating into something far, far colder. A door creaked open somewhere ahead of him, but he couldn’t see for his tears.

“ _Mama…_ ” 

He looked up, and stumbled to his feet. They were at the mouth of that wretched closet: dark, if not for the candles, the walls lined with crucifixes, a bloody, crucified Christ displayed centrally. 

He looked up at her, desperate for sympathy, but her face was stoic and unyielding. _Leave, run away from her. She can’t do this to you._

“Please…” He shook awfully, and practically fell into her arms. She pushed him away, revulsion distorting her features.

“Do not touch me until you have made peace with the Lord.”

There were two options: either Paul stayed put and endured more screaming matches, or he let himself be locked in the closet, and had peace. 

He chose peace. 

The door shut behind him, drenching him in flickering darkness. It was a familiar darkness, but unlike his room, it didn’t feel safe, either. When he was in here, he felt eyes, the _burning_ eyes of the Lord on him. Paul knelt, and clasped his hands, trying to find some semblance of comfort in the eyes of the hanging Jesus Christ. But he was just ceramic. It was times like this when Paul really wondered if what he perceived as “comfort” was even real or not. 

Still, it couldn’t hurt to pray for it.

_“Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name...”_

* * *

Laurie shut the door, and shuddered. She pulled a key out of her pocket, and locked the boy in. He could stay there forever, for all she cared, if only so that she didn’t have to see his _eyes._

After what had just happened, she expected the place to look like an absolute wreck. She had been so fierce, he had screamed so much, but the kitchen looked normal. It looked like it did when he walked through the door and Laurie laid eyes on him, when they were a happy little family. There would’ve been no phone call, and they would have had a lovely night in, like they always do. How could she have failed him like this, to let him get to such a point where he could be caught in his sin? Tears beaded in her eyes. 

“Oh, Paul…” she sighed, wondering pensively if he could forgive her for what she had done — no, what she _had_ to do.

Something caught her eye.

All the fabric for the dress that once covered the table had been scattered in all directions over the floor. She squinted. They hadn’t hit the table, and even if they had, it wouldn’t have been flung out so spectacularly. _Odd,_ she thought, kneeling to pick it up. A shudder ran through her. How did it end up like that?

She didn’t want to think about the implications. 


	4. Nobody dies from a scar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Emma Perkins' was a name that came up in the case files of the incident, and quite a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo, Chapter 4 is here! As always, big thanks to aspiringaspie for the editing. This one's probably the most light-hearted chapter I've done so far, and may perhaps be one of the lightest chapters in the whole thing, so enjoy that while it lasts!

_ Monday 23rd, April 1990. 20:43. _

Emma breathed a sigh, the balmy night air feeling a little suffocating, even though she had escaped to the back garden of her cousin’s fairly opulent house. They were having a little family gathering to celebrate the impending graduation of the two girls, which had then turned into a huge family gathering, which then turned into Linda inviting all of her friends around to party in the garden whilst the adults chatted cordially in the house. God, she wished she could be in there. Even if what they talked about was the dullest shit she had ever heard, it was better than having to learn about all the horrible things Linda and her cronies got up to during the school day, on top of everything she’d actually seen.

“Hey Em, are you ok?” She felt someone settle down beside her on the step of the glass backdoor, and looked up to see one of her closest friends — Bill. Her spirits lifted just a little.

“Been better,” she replied, putting her head on her knees with a grunt, “I kinda wanna just run off with you and hang out at the park or something, but Mom’d  _ kill me  _ if I skipped out on it, and Jane’s chatting up her  _ amour _ .” 

Bill pulled a face and sat back, looking at the sky. “At least you aren’t the only one feeling like that,” he said darkly ( _ uncharacteristically  _ darkly, now that she thought on).

“Why?” she asked, squinting suspiciously. “You can tell me stuff, y’know. If you’re feeling shitty you might as well get it off your chest.”

“Ehh, I dunno… You’ll think less of me.” He, too, put his head on his knees, looking genuinely ashamed. Though, to be fair, Bill was the kind of guy that looked ashamed when he answered a question correctly in class, or talked politely to a cashier at a store. “Besides, I would’ve thought you’d have already heard it from  _ her _ .” 

He indicated towards Emma’s cousin, who was, like always, surrounded by her little group. 

The members of that group seemed to change often, but there were a few constants; the few that Emma imagined to be the most loyal henchmen of the evil queen:

Sam was the muscle, this tall and strong leather-jacket wearing  _ jerk  _ who always wore this awful leer that Emma thought was gross. 

Gary was the smart guy, and, though seemingly unlikely, he was Linda’s  _ boyfriend _ . That was something she thought was weird. He wasn’t even as nasty as the rest of them, just a scrawny nerd who was sucker for authority. 

Next in line, Zoey. Emma’s coworker at the coffee shop she worked weekends at. A theatre kid. She didn’t like Zoey at  _ all _ .

Then of course, at the centre of it all, was Linda. Pretty, blonde, rich, popular, scheming, nasty, bitchy Linda. Once upon a time they had been pretty close friends. Emma was always happy when she heard the remarks that the two looked like they could be sisters. Nowadays, those kinds of comments made her stomach turn. 

Right now, Linda was laughing along with her posse about something, imitating some unfortunate soul’s shocked, open-mouthed face and mock-stumbling around, before bursting back into giggles.

“Jesus…” Bill muttered, folding his arms and looking away from the scene.

“So, are you gonna tell me what happened, or am I gonna hear it right from the horse’s mouth?” Emma asked, really getting tired of the whole wishy-washy ordeal.

“Hey Emma, you weren’t there, today,  _ were you _ ~?” 

Linda’s singsong-voice abruptly cut above the hubbub of everyone that had been invited over. She’d stepped into the spotlight, and it was her cue to go and entertain whatever she wanted to say for a while. Emma stood, and Bill followed behind her anxiously, right into the lion’s den.

“God, Emma, it was great! You should’ve seen him!”   
  
“Seen who?” Emma asked, having a feeling she already knew the answer.

“Take a wild guess:  _ obviously  _ Matthews.”

Yep, there it was. Paul Matthews was Linda’s favourite target because (and Linda had told her this in confidence) he was  _ weak _ . No matter what she did to him, he’d just sit and take it for whatever reason. Maybe he was scared, maybe his witch of a mother had drilled it into him that he deserved it, or perhaps being teased for so long had cultivated that same mindset. But whatever the reason was, he sat and took the torment. No arguments,  _ ever _ .

“Christ, Linda, do you ever leave that guy alone? He’s going to break some day and it’s not going to be pretty,” chastised Bill, to which the classmate in question responded with a rather sharp laugh.

“Do I need to remind you who was in there pitching with the rest of us? That’s right,  _ you _ . Or are you going to act the saint now you feel bad? Oh, boo-hoo, Bill. “She mimicked tears, before snapping back to a serious tone, “My heart  _ breaks  _ for your angelic soul.”

Emma glared at Bill, starting to get pissed that she wasn’t getting an answer. “What did you guys  _ do? _ ”

They stayed silent for a few seconds. The surrounding students averted their eyes. Linda folded her arms, her unimpressed expression resting on Bill. They’d all seen Emma angry, and knew she wasn’t backing down without a satisfying response.

“U-Uh… well, I didn’t- I didn’t really see what started it all…” Bill began, Sam snickering. “But it was after gym, and I was getting changed, when I saw them making a crowd around him. He was still in the showers, but they might’ve backed him in, I… I don’t know, but Emma, something about him’s just…” 

He snapped his fingers, searching for a word.

“Pathetic?” Gary offered, Emma glared at him.  _ Hypocrite _ .

Bill looked taken aback, but didn’t deny it. “And when I saw them shouting at him, I just… I thought, ‘He always goes on about his religion, and his mother, and he just needs to be taken down a notch.’ So...I joined in.” 

He finally shut up, ashamedly, and Emma was shocked into complete and utter silence. 

Something urged Bill to continue, however, as he added, “Some people threw things at him, he fell over, and he was freaking out. Like,  _ really  _ freaking out, red in the face and sobbing so hard he looked like he couldn’t breathe. Hidgens came in and yelled at all of us, and—”   
  
“ _ POW! _ The lightbulb above him exploded and cut him up!” Sam interjected, seemingly unable to contain his manic excitement.

“Shut the fuck up, Sam,” Linda said coolly, but she was grinning too, in that coy and insidious little way she always did. “You heard the man though, Emma. He made it sound so horrible, but Jesus, it was pretty hilarious. You  _ had _ to be there.”

Emma could have slapped her. Her face contorted in anger, and she struggled for words for a few seconds. Unluckily for Linda, she found them pretty quickly. 

“What the  _ fuck _ , Linda? That’s not okay! Sure, sure, okay, I don’t really care about him that much, but what do you have against the guy?” she exclaimed, fists balled up. “He’s done nothing to you and you make his life a living hell. His only escape from you guys is probably the gym showers-  _ Christ- _ …” 

She trailed off. Why did she even feel so incensed to defend this guy?

“Emma,” Linda sighed, rolling her eyes, “calm down, people are staring.”

“No,  _ no,  _ fuck you, Linda! And all of you guys.  _ You _ joined in!” 

Emma pointed an accusatory finger towards Bill, who lowered his eyes in shame. Sam looked as though he’d rather be somewhere else right now, Gary fidgeted with his sleeves, and Zoey was sipping furiously from her straw despite the glass being empty. 

In a softer voice, her words still tight with emotion, Emma addresses the bespectacled boy. “Gary, isn’t he your cousin? Why didn’t you step in?”

Gary immediately turned red and his eyes went wide, and that was all the evidence Emma needed to come to a realization:  _ that _ detail about him hadn’t been told to the group as a whole. 

Zoey gasped in delight, and began to giggle. “Oh my god, that fuckin’ moron, he’s your  _ what? _ ” 

Emma groaned. When Zoey got a hold of gossip like this, she had a habit of not shutting the hell up. Likewise, Sam was positively  _ howling  _ with laughter, and Linda, for the first time in a while, looked embarrassed. She grabbed Emma’s hand tight, and led her away from the action, placing her hands on Emma’s shoulders firmly once they were gone. Only Bill seemed to notice.

“Emma. Calm down, it wasn’t  _ that _ serious, for god’s sake,” she said firmly, looking almost disgusted. “I watched him leave school out the window, he was fine. We got a week’s detention that I’m not going to serve for. Just  _ forget _ about it.”

But Emma couldn’t forget. She shoved Linda off of her, breathless, shaking her head. She had to get away from this circus of torment. Not thinking straight, she turned on her heel, and fled out of the garden gate.

“Emma!” Bill called, but Emma didn’t stop.

“Fuck off, Bill! I’m not in the mood!”

“Your mom, Emma!”

“I don’t care!”

She came to a standstill on the street, a breeze washing over her that cleared her thoughts a little. She had always hated how Linda treated Paul Matthews, and all her other classmates, for that matter — this just happened to be the straw that broke the camel’s back. Her jaw unclenched, and her fists fell loose. 

“I’m sorry I yelled at you, Bill,” she said quietly, hearing him come up behind her. “I’m sick of her. I can’t believe that even  _ you  _ joined in on it…”

He stayed quiet for a few seconds. Just then, his eyes brightened.

“I have an idea…on how to make it up to him. How to make  _ all _ of this up to him, but I’m going to need your help,” he said, and when Emma turned around, he looked genuine. This was why she was Bill’s friend — he always went out of his way to be nice to others.

And,  _ Emma _ ? Well, she had just gone on a tirade defending Paul Matthews. 

Maybe she cared about him a little more than she thought. 


	5. I'd die if you pushed me away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Telekinesis - noun - The production of motion in objects (as by a spiritualistic medium) without contact or other physical means

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so this one was written really fast, but I had so many idea for this that I didn't want to wait! It's the shortest one so far but I'm pretty proud of how it's written, so I hope you guys enjoy it!

_ Monday 23rd, April 1990. 21:06. _

It had been five hours since Paul was locked in the closet. He counted it on the chimes of the hallway clock. The candles were burning to low stumps. He was hungry.  _ Starving _ .

He lowered his clasped hands, and looked up at Jesus, pinned to his cross. Paul wanted him to be real, to be the lamb of god; the shepherd to shepherd him away from the life he was living. This Jesus couldn’t do that — he was made of stone. A stone statue didn't listen to your prayers, a stone statue didn't hold you when you cried until there were no tears left to cry, a stone statue didn't make anything better. Paul reached out. He wanted to grab that idol and smash it to pieces, screaming and crying, but he lowered his hand, full of shame for even thinking of doing that.

Mama would kill him.

_ Mama. _

He looked behind him at the door, listening to the rhythmic clicking of the sewing machine from the other room. Would she listen to his prayers? She hadn’t listened to him before. Would she hold him when he cried until there were no tears left to cry? She had pushed him away. Would she make things better? She had locked him in the closet again. 

Mama was no better than the stone effigy of the Son of Man.

_ You could smash her to pieces. _

“ _ No… _ ” he whispered. Where had that thought come from? He didn't hate his mama. He didn't want to hurt her. He  _ never _ wanted to hurt her. She was only human, she made mistakes. Even if Paul did want to hurt her, he didn't have the capability.

_ You do have the capability. _

He did have the capability.

Paul’s head whipped back around, and this time, he did not shudder under Christ’s gaze. He was only stone — Paul was human. He was  _ stronger _ . He looked ahead and stretched his arm out towards the statue. At first there was nothing, nothing,  _ nothing _ , and he was empty. But very quickly, there was something. There was a burning, there was a  _ fire _ in his head and his body, flowing from his head to his fingertips; it was hot like when he cried, and cold like the showers, and the force was pounding and pounding and  _ pounding and moving and shifting _ and he could feel something travelling through him. The cupboard had disappeared and it was just him and the gory crucifix, and his mind was  _ flexing  _ like a muscle and Jesus on his cross was floating in midair.

Jesus on his cross was floating in midair.

_ Jesus on his cross was floating in midair. _

Paul stared, mouth agape. This wasn't a miracle of God or a curse of Satan —  _ he _ was doing this. He could feel this force, this  _ power _ , like an extension of his own arm, reaching out and holding onto the figure...

_ Smash it to pieces. _

He put it down instead, with his own hands, not with the strength he’d felt that simultaneously  _ boiled  _ under his skin and  _ turned his blood to ice _ . But now...those strange, unexplainable sensations were gone. The closet around had come back. He continued to stare at nothing, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

He felt weightless.

“Paul?”

The door behind him opened and Mama stood before him, silhouetted in the warm, orange glow of the kitchen light. He couldn’t see her face, but he could sense that whatever anger was in her before had dissipated. When had he been able to sense that?

“You can go to bed now.”

“Yes, Mama.”

“It's getting late, say your prayers.”

“Yes, Mama.”

The two walked into the living room, and she put a hand over his shoulder gently. He shrank to her side, his shoulders drawing up. He did not dare to look up at her.

“ _ Now I lay me down to sleep, _ ” Mama began, kneeling on the floor. Paul followed her lead, and they continued in tandem: 

“ _ I Pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I die before I wake, Pray the Lord my soul to take. _ ”

They stopped together. Silence. 

The clock on the wall ticked. He couldn’t tell her what had happened in the closet. He’d spend the evening and possibly the whole of the next day in there as punishment.

_ If she didn’t try to drown you in holy water. _

“Paul, I…” Mama began, her voice wavering. There were tears welling in her eyes, making them all glassy. “Hurting you like that…it  _ kills _ me inside, I—...and I can't explain it, sometimes. But you must know that I love you so much.”

Paul had never heard her sound so sad. It nearly brought him to tears, his stomach twisting in knots. 

“Please,” she pleaded, “can you find it in your heart to forgive me for what I have done?”

"It was  _ my _ fault, Mama,” Paul spoke, trying to comfort his mother. 

(Deep down he still didn't understand what he had done. He wasn’t sure he ever would.)

“Please don't cry. It was my fault,  _ my _ fault…”

She opened her arms, and he collapsed into them. She stroked his hair, rocking him like a child. He could feel her tears falling onto his head. “I'd rather die than see you suffer, Paul. You are the only thing I have to live for anymore.”

Mama was shaking, and he could feel it. So wracked with grief that her body  _ trembled _ from the sheer amount of it. He was shaking too. 

It wasn’t from grief.

“I'm going to go to bed, Mama,” he whispered. She planted a kiss on the top of his head, and withdrew her arms. His distraught mother remained seated on the floor, her back against the sofa, staring dolefully up at him as he retreated. He had to look away. Looking at her now caused that power in his head to start moving again, to go wild and mad. 

Maybe she felt that; maybe the way she was staring at him wasn’t out of love, but something else. 

_ Did he like that she possibly feared his power? _

Paul retreated to his bedroom quickly, that forbidden thought buzzing around in his head.  _ Did he like that she possibly feared this power?  _ Was the power even real, or was he just imagining it? He didn’t think so. He’d been in there longer, and it had never triggered yet. 

For about half an hour, he tried to get it to happen again. What had he done before? He was angry, the world faded away, and just like that, something was running through him. The most he could get to happen was forcing a coin to fall off his desk, and he was practically touching it. 

Paul changed for bed, and laid down. He didn’t sleep all night. He wasn’t tired. He wasn't hungry. 

Something else was feeding him now.


	6. One day, you finally see him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The name 'Emma Perkins' just kept coming up, again, and again, and again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I am well aware this is my third chapter in three days, I'm just on a ROLL, baby! I'm excited to get to the latter half of the story, because that's when things get fun, but for now, enjoy my attempts at original poetry and baby's first crush.

_ Tuesday 24th, April 1990. 10:00. _

The second period bell clanged, shaking Emma out of her stupor as she sat down at her desk in the middle of the English class. How was it only the second period? She was already bored as hell. One by one, the students snaked in. Some looked fine, chattering in groups, others looked just as dreary as she felt. Bill entered, and he nodded at her, giving her a smile. She nodded back, and glanced behind her.

Even though they didn’t have assigned seats, everyone sat in the same place every day. Paul Matthews always sat three desks behind her, at the very back of the classroom. He never usually looked  _ great _ , but this morning, there was just something about him that made him stand out from his usual unkempt nature. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he seemed completely out of it, staring blankly at a pencil on his desk. Emma raised her eyebrows and turned back around, tapping her own pencil on the desk absentmindedly as the teacher walked in.

“All right, all right, settle down, everyone. Take your seats, get your jotters out, you know the drill,” Mr. Pricely announced as the class did just that, all settling into their seats as they one-by-one remembered what class they were in, and what teacher was teaching it. There almost seemed to be a collective and long-suffering  _ sigh _ . “Now, I’ve spent— no,  _ wasted  _ my weekend reading your assignments, and I have to say I am severely disappointed in the quality. Now I  _ know  _ most of you have already been accepted by a college, but that does not mean you can…”

Just like that, Emma zoned out completely, looking up at Mr Pricely to at least pretend that she was paying attention to this rant, a rant that they’d all heard on Friday, and on Wednesday, and  _ last  _ Tuesday. It was every week. Every. Fucking. Week. 

“...was an exemplary example. Miss Perkins?”

“ _ Shit _ ,” she muttered, brought back to the present moment. Someone behind her snickered. “Uhm, yes, Mr. Pricely?”

Thankfully, he hadn’t noticed her swearing (or perhaps he chose not to acknowledge it). “Would you care to read out your poem for the class, Miss Perkins?”

She looked around, surprised. Had she actually written something good, for once? Good to the point where it apparently needed to be shown to everyone?

“Yes, I mean  _ you,  _ Emma.”

“Uh, okay, sure.” She took the paper off of her desk, which had been marked in red pen, the notes making her chuckle to herself. Mr. Pricely had underlined a particular phrase three times and written  **_YES!_ ** in huge writing. And also underlined that three times.

“Uh...do I have to?” She wasn’t a particularly nervous person, but it really wasn’t  _ that  _ good.

Her teacher merely stared. “Would I be asking you to do it if you didn’t have to?”

She grumbled, getting to her feet. No, she wasn’t shy at all, but at the same time, she didn’t really like having everyone’s eyes on her while she read out her shitty poem that she never intended on anyone seeing. 

“Uh, right.” Emma held the piece of paper in front of her, trying not to make her anxiety too obvious. “This is ‘Observation’, by Emma Perkins.” 

She cleared her throat, and began:

_ I cannot help but stop and look around _

_ “Look down,” say the people passing by _

_ They repeat “Look down — there is nothing for you here” _

_ I cannot help but stop and look for the sun _

_ “You cannot see me,” says the sun, _

_ “But I am still here,” she reassures _

_ I cannot help but stop and look at the sky. _

_ “You must breathe,” says the sky, _

_ And “Breathe” then “Breathe” again. _

_ I cannot help but stop to wonder _

_ “Is this all there is?” says I, as I stop and look at the sky, _

_ “Is there anything else for me, for them?” _

_ I cannot help. _

She finished reading, allowing herself to breathe. There was a silence in the room, which was cut into by Mr. Pricely clapping enthusiastically.  _ Well, at least you were listening, sir,  _ she thought glumly, sitting back down. 

“Now  _ that  _ is the kind of quality I would’ve expected from the rest of you, this is a fantastic example. Thank you, Emma!” The teacher continued to enthuse, “There’s a distinct lack of structure to it, and yet, the repetition is  _ perfect,  _ I— class, would anyone like to share their opinions on Miss Perkins’s writing?”

More silence. Either nobody was listening, or nobody wanted to be subjected to more pretentious rambling.

Then, a quiet voice from the back of the classroom: “Beautiful.” 

Mr. Pricely looked around, genuinely shocked that Paul Matthews had finally  _ said  _ something in his class. Emma noticed too, but she didn’t turn around. Did he really think that…?

“Yes, Mr Matthews, what was that?” the teacher prompted.

“I-It was beautiful,” Paul said again, and this time, Emma looked at him. The nervous boy she had seen for so many semesters seemed transformed, in a way. He still looked exhausted, but his  _ eyes _ — she’d never seen his eyes sparkle like that. Come to think of it, she hadn’t noticed how  _ blue  _ they were. It was the first time she’d seen him seem so genuinely… _ interested  _ in something, even if he was having trouble elaborating. It was endearing, in an awkward, Paul-ish kind of way.

“Oh my  _ God _ ,” Sam muttered from his seat near the doorway. “‘ _ Beautiful _ ,’ like it was—”

“ _ Shut up,  _ Sam,” Emma snapped, cringing when she realised she was parroting Linda. “Let him speak.”

Paul looked embarrassed, but definitely relieved that she was sticking up for him, so he continued. “I, uh, I just think that it’s, uhm…even though the poem ends on a hopeless note, there’s still hope in the other verses, like...uh— like the speaker  _ believes  _ things will get better, even if the reality around them is cold…”

“I am going to  _ vomit _ ,” drawled Linda from somewhere also near the back of the room.

“Be  _ quiet,  _ Miss Monroe, or you’ll be spending your lunch inside doing lines,” Mr. Pricely chastised, looking pointedly at her. “What Mr Matthews was telling us just now was incredibly insightful, and shows a deep understanding of…”

And, just like that, Emma zoned out again. Well, she zoned out from the class, but her thoughts were going about a million miles a minute. She didn’t even think her poem was good, but  _ he  _ had made a good point about it, a point she didn’t even think about, if she was being honest. Did he care that much not only to listen, but to analyse it on the spot? 

_ Maybe what Bill said was right,  _ she thought, returning to tapping her pencil against her desk.

The hour long lesson flew by in what felt like minutes, the bell heralding that it was time for their plan to be set in motion. Bill looked back at Emma, and she gave a subtle nod, getting up, packing her bag, and leaving with the rest of the class. But Bill stayed back. Emma waited outside the door, out of sight, listening.

“Hey, Paul,” he said, a little awkwardly.

The silence in response was deafening.

“Uh, what you said about Emma’s poem was nice. It was  _ really _ nice.”

Silence.

“Look, I, uh…I just wanted to...uh, yesterday, after gym, things got really out of hand, a-and I just wanted you to know that—”

“I’m not  _ stupid,  _ Bill,” Paul finally spoke up in response, and the scrape of his chair across the floor told Emma he had stood up, “You’re going to say you’re sorry, but you’re  _ not.  _ I know how this works, I’m not going to be tricked again.” 

He sounded tired.  _ Really  _ tired. Emma thought he would’ve sounded angrier .

“Wait, no, that’s not what I meant—!”

But Paul had already turned to leave, both hands on the straps of his backpack, his head lowered and eyebrows furrowed. He exited the classroom, and did a startled kind of stumble, like a baby giraffe finding his feet, when he saw Emma. What little irritation had been on his face was replaced with embarrassment, his face going completely red. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, before darting off. Emma stared after him until he was out of sight, trying to make sense of this all.

A few seconds later, Bill followed him out, and sighed, hands on his hips. “Okay…so that didn’t exactly go as planned,” he lamented, looking down at Emma. “I’m not sure this is going to work if he’s going to be like  _ that _ .”

“Bill, you dumb shit,  _ you’re _ the one that asked  _ me  _ to do this,” she couldn’t help but laugh a little at the absurdity of what she’d just seen, and the realisation she had come to. “At least I know now you were right about him having a hell of a crush, I can’t believe I never  _ noticed _ .”

He snorted, and the two began to walk down the hallway to their next class. “You’re gonna ask him to Prom, still, right?”

“Yep, during study hall. If he’s still in that lovestruck mood, I can’t imagine he’ll say no.”

“And you’re okay to take him?” Bill asked.

She gave another sharp laugh, tucking a lock of hair behind her ears. “Yeah, it’ll piss Linda off,” Emma said with a grin, before considering something, and adding. “It’ll be like, I’m taking a  _ cuter  _ version of her boyfriend to the prom, she’ll hate it.”

Bill’s mouth formed a perfect ‘o’ shape, which then morphed into a grin. “Em, did you just call him  _ cute _ ?”

It was her turn to go red this time.

“No,” she said bluntly, turning her face from her friend. Bill just chuckled, nudging Emma playfully.

  
“You did! Oh my god,  _ Emma— _ !”

“I did  _ not!” _ Emma insisted, her cheeks growing hotter. “Look, okay, I’m doing this out of the goodness of my heart, and of my will to annoy someone I don’t like!  _ Okay _ ?”

“Okay, whatever you say, Em.”


	7. A night he'd never forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The calm before the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooooooah, we're halfway there~ Wooooooooooah, livin' on a prayer! I hope you all enjoy this read! I struggle to write Hidgens so you'll have to excuse that this is the last chapter from his perspective, as well as any slightly... not good writing of him. As always, massive thanks to aspiringaspie for the edits, I literally could not do this without you.

_Tuesday 24th, April 1990. 15:00._

_Tick..._

_Tick..._

_Tick..._

_Tick..._

_Tick..._

The classroom was quiet, save for the tick, tick, ticking of the clock, and the scratching of pen and paper. Hidgens usually didn’t mind running detentions, most of the time. It was a nice bit of quiet after a long day. Every so often, he just had to look up and check that the class wasn’t doing anything, and most of the time, they weren’t. 

This time, every time he looked up, his stomach turned. Everyone in this classroom was in detention for that stunt in the locker room yesterday, and truth be told, he resented all of those students for that. Maybe it was petty and wrong for a teacher to hate a child, but they were nearly _adults._ There were only so many excuses you could make.

“I’m sure you all know why you’re here,” he finally said, sitting back in his chair and folding his arms. “What you all did on Monday was a really shitty thing. Did any of y—” Someone giggled at the novel concept of a teacher swearing. He glared at them, and continued. “Did any of you ever stop to think that Paul Matthews has feelings? If this whole situation were up to me, you’d all be dealing with three days’ suspension, and getting your Prom tickets _revoked!_ ” 

He stood up with a theatrical flourish. Zoey groaned a loud “ _Noooo,_ ” looking incredibly distressed that she had even managed to get herself into detention, nevermind _suspended._

“Now...I didn’t say that was _happening_ ,” Hidgens reminded Zoey, pacing at the front of the classroom, “but failure to attend these detentions for the rest of the week _will_ result in the punishment described. Understand?”

A few students nervously nodded.

“Excuse me, do you _understand?_ ”

“Yes, Professor Hidgens,” chirped a few students.

“Also,” he added, “because I do not believe any of you actually _did_ , you’re going to all apologise to Mr. Matthews right now.”

“ _Whaaaaat?_ ” Linda Monroe blurted, taken off guard. _Good_ , Hidgens thought, bitterly. _Be shocked, you’re the one who started it._

With one last lingering stare at the class to ensure they stayed seated, Hidgens walked out the door to approach Paul Matthews, who’d been waiting outside. Good _God,_ he looked absolutely exhausted, even more so than normal. Worriedly, he wondered if the boy ever actually _slept_ , as the boy’s gaze drifted lazily about. 

“Paul?” Hidgens asked, wondering how long he could’ve stood there silently before Paul actually noticed.

“Ohuh?” He snapped to attention. At least, _somewhat_. He still really didn’t look all there.

“You can come in now, Paul.” Henry tried to muster some kind of nice tone, but good god, this kid was an absolute _space case_ , and that was coming from Hidgens. “It’ll be okay.”

Paul shuffled into the classroom after Hidgens — he always _shuffled_ — and stood in front of the class. To Hidgens, Paul appeared as if he were of some kind of caged baby animal at a zoo.

“All right, Bill. You first.”

Bill looked up from his desk, and looked Paul in the eyes. “I’m sorry, Paul,” he said, and Hidgens had a feeling that was the only genuine apology he’d be hearing all day. At least he could respect Bill for that.

“Good. Zoey?”

“I’m _sorry._ ” She, too, sounded genuine, but Hidgens also suspected that she _really_ wanted to be Prom Queen, so that didn’t really count for much.

“Sam.”

The boy stared defiantly at the two of them, but Hidgens stared back, and won that little contest he was trying to start. 

“Eh... _sorry,_ I guess,” he mumbled, folding his arms. Kind of a pathetic apology, but Hidgens wasn’t about to fight for a better one.

“All right, Miss Monroe, let’s hear it.”

“ _No,_ ” she said firmly, avoiding eye contact with the man. Hidgens’s blood boiled, but the look Paul gave him told him that he’d have to take this one slowly, that Paul didn’t want this to be trouble. “What was that, Miss Monroe?”

She gave a rather dramatic sigh, and got up from her desk. “Oh, _Paul_ ,” she began, laying on the apologetic demeanor rather thickly, “I-I—”

“You don’t have to apologise,” Paul said quietly, fidgeting with his hands. In hindsight, maybe having the class apologise _wasn’t_ the most sensible idea Hidgens had ever had.

For some reason, his words really _incensed_ Linda. He could see the change on her face. She walked to the front of the classroom until she was face-to-face with Paul (though the intended intimidating effect was slightly lost, given that she was almost an entire foot shorter than him).

“Linda,” Hidgens said warningly. She shot a glare the old man’s way, before returning to Paul, like a panther stalking her prey. 

“ _Paul Matthews eats shit_ ,” she spoke, softly, a serene smile crossing her face, so _proud of herself._ Paul barely even reacted. Almost everyone in the classroom burst into shocked laughter, as if they couldn’t believe she had _actually_ said that — in front of a _teacher_ , no less!

Well, she was about to be _real_ happy, then, if this attention was what she wanted. “All right, Linda, you’re out of the prom.”

Suddenly, no one was laughing anymore. The confident grin on Linda’s face dropped completely.

“ _No!_ ” Linda protested, placing an offended hand to her chest. She couldn’t allow them to do this to her. “You can’t do that!”

“Oh, I’m afraid I _can_ , Linda.” Hidgens addressed the other teens, “You can all go home. Class dismissed.”

“ _But—!_ ”

_“Dismissed, get out of my sight!”_

Rather quickly, the class left, aside from Linda, who seemed rather scandalised. “I-I’ll have my mother _sue_ you—! The school _—you—”_

“Oh, shut _up_ , Linda,” Bill said from the doorway, and Hidgens didn’t stop him — the boy was saying what he desperately wanted to say. “This isn’t about you.”

“But, I—”

But Henry was absolutely fed up. “He’s _right_ , Linda. Now go home, or I will have to call someone to escort you out.”

That was it, then. Everything taken away from Linda Monroe herself, just like that. All because of _Paul Matthews._

With an indignant huff, she stormed out, ranting, “This is nowhere even _near_ over.” She went quiet for a moment then, and though no one else heard her, she adopted a particularly menacing tone as she mumbled, “Just you _wait_.”

Hidgens watched her leave, and returned to his desk with a sigh, only noticing after a few seconds that Paul was still loitering in the classroom. Why was he still here?

“Paul, you can go too.” Hidgens sifted through some papers, focusing on the homework he had to grade and mark up. Or, at least he pretended to, hoping that it’d get the poor kid. to leave. Still, Paul remained. At least the rather distracted expression was gone from his face now. In fact, Mr. Matthews looked rather alarmed now.

  
“Please don’t ban her from the prom, sir,” he said softly, eyes fixed on the floor.

Well, that was quite the surprise. _“What...?”_

“Don’t ban her, please,” Paul continued to plead. “It’s not worth it, Prom is so important to her—”

“And stopping her bad behavior is important to _me_ , Paul.” He turned over the worksheet and began grading the other side, but Paul _still_ hadn’t moved. “Did she not hurt your feelings?”

“W-Well, yes, but Prom’s _everything_ to her, and to all her friends.” Paul looked out the window of the classroom, as if he was recalling something. “She’ll have her dress by now, and now she’ll miss out on that night…”

_What?_ Of all people, Henry hadn’t exactly expected the _victim_ of the incident to be the one sticking up for its perpetrator. This boy was so determined to not make an impact on the world, that he was willing to stop the punishment of someone who had wronged him? Once upon a time, he would have called it pitiful, _pathetic,_ but now it was just… _sad_. 

“Well, Paul, what about you? Don’t you want to go to Prom? They’re still selling tickets.”

This time, he looked up at the boy, who had settled at a desk. Then, Hidgens heard something from Paul, something he didn’t think he’d ever hear from the shy kid who sat in the back of the class: _laughter_. 

“Me? Oh, _no,_ I don’t have anyone to go with, and besides, it’s not really...I wouldn’t fit in there,” Paul excused himself, the smile fading from his face just as quickly as it appeared. “Why?”

“Why don’t you go?” Hidgens suggested without really thinking about it. “You’ve had a rough week already and it’s only Tuesday. Why not enjoy yourself?” 

Hidgens bit the inside of his cheek before he could add “for once.”

Without another word, Paul had disappeared, practically fleeing the room. Hidgens looked after him for a few seconds. 

_Well. At least I can say I tried to help._

* * *

_Tuesday 24th, April 1990. 16:34._

“ _Raaaargh_ , I can’t _stand_ that fucking- _fucking—”_ Linda stammered for a word, pacing her room furiously as Gary paid no mind to her, doing both of their homework from her desk. “ _Who does he think he is?_ ‘You don’t have to apologise’? _UGH._ ” 

With that, she flopped face-down onto her bed, and then slammed a fist down on it to punctuate the rant. “It’s not _fair!”_

“Mhm,” Gary said absent-mindedly, concentrating more on imitating Linda’s handwriting than her angry rambling, which had been going on and off for the past half an hour. He’d just tuned it out at this point.

“And that _teacher,_ who does he think he is?”

“Mhm.”

“He surely can’t—...” She huffed, flopping onto her back and swiping hair out of her face. _“I already bought the tickets!”_

“Mm- _hm_.”

“You’re not listening to _meeee, Garyyyyyyyy!”_ Linda whined, sitting up straight.

“I am,” he insisted in complete monotone, without looking up.

“What did I just say, then?”

“Uh...something about tickets?”

“ _God.”_ Linda was back on her feet, frowning deeply, “It’s not _fair._ I wanna get him back for this, he’s had it coming for a long time. I need _revenge.”_

Gary finally glanced over to her, pushing up his glasses, which had slipped down his nose with his head having bent so close to the paper. “What?”

“And you’re going to help me.”

_“What?”_ he repeated, turning around in the chair this time. “What am _I_ going to do?”

She considered for a second, giving a hum and tapping her fingers against the frame of her bed. “I don’t know yet, but I’m going to...figure _something_ out. And it’s going to _destroy_ him.”


	8. They'll laugh at you, watching you fall apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things take a turn for the better, then for the worse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of y'all are about to be real mad at me but this scene had to happen, and oh BOY. Please heed the tags, it's another rocky one.

_ Tuesday 24th, April 1990. 17:47. _

Though the day had started out nice and sunny, it had slowly faded into dreary clouds that threatened to rain. Asking Paul to Prom in study hall hadn't exactly worked out. She’d tried again by slipping him a note, and he had stared at her with wide, terrified eyes for a few moments, before fleeing the room. 

Before Emma left school that day, Professor Hidgens had caught up with her, and given her a stern warning: “I hope you're not attempting to lead him on. This better not be a set-up to make fun of him some more, or you'll be spending what's left of the term in  _ detention. _ ”

Even if that wasn't her intention, Hidgens, perhaps the only teacher in the school she genuinely liked, seemed to be very skilled in having her all pent up. It was so odd for  _ him  _ to seem so tense, too. She knew she was his favourite student. She just  _ knew _ those kinds of things.

“Are you gonna be okay, Emma?” Bill asked as they got off the school bus, sensing how uneasy she was. “You don't have to do this if you don't feel like it.”

“No,  _ no _ , I'm good, I'm okay.” She looked back at Bill, only now realising that she had been staring at the picket fences as they walked to Paul’s house. “I just...I dunno, I can’t shake this bad feeling I have. About  _ all _ this. I feel like something bad’s gonna happen.”

Bill considered for a few seconds, seemingly stalling for time as much as Emma herself was. “Yeah...Yeah, I get that. I’m thinking Linda's gonna try something,” he said quietly, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. “That being said, they aren’t even going to let her into the school the day of the prom, so if something’s going to happen, it's going to happen when a teacher can put a stop to it...I think?”

“Gee, thanks,  _ real  _ reassuring, Bill.” She rolled her eyes, but did genuinely feel a little better. He was right — the chances of this plan going wrong were slim to none.

“Well, here it is.”

Abruptly, the two of them stood outside the Matthews residence. It was fairly small, like all the other houses on the street, with a fairly well-kept front lawn, and pristine white paint on the wooden decking. It wouldn’t have stood out at all, if not for the fact that the roof, though attempts at repair had clearly been made, was very obviously dented by something. 

_ How did it even get like that?  _ Emma thought, staring up at it.  _ Looks like something the size of a damn football hit it _ . 

“You should probably hide, Bill. I don't think he likes you.” Emma gave Bill a playful nudge and opened the gate, slipping inside the garden. “See you on the other side.”

Bill slipped behind the tree that grew at the edge of the property, giving Emma a cheerful thumbs up before fully retreating. Just as she’d stepped upon the front steps of the porch, rain started up in a light shower.

Before Emma could even knock on the door, it opened a crack, and through that crack, she saw the familiar, gangly form of Paul Matthews. He didn't say anything, just looked at her.

“Uh, hey!” she said brightly, maybe a little  _ too  _ brightly, overcompensating for the already uncomfortable atmosphere. “You okay?”

“You can't be here,” he said quickly, “Mama’s asleep right now, but if she wakes up—”

“I know, I know, but I’ll only be a minute,” she cut in, noticing he was about half a second away from closing the door on her and retreating. “I figured study hall might not have been the best place to ask, but—”

“Oh  _ no. _ ”

“—will you go to Prom with me?”

Emma pulled the tickets out of her pocket, holding them out to him. Though she expected Paul to flee again, right then and there, he actually opened the door fully, staying where he was. She knew she shouldn’t have, but she let herself have a little glance around the house over his shoulder. Plain, and old fashioned. 

“Emma...” Paul shrunk back from the tickets as if they were a knife. “No, no, I _ can’t.  _ I'm sorry for letting you down.”

Her heart sank for some reason. The first time she had asked him, she figured a note wasn’t the  _ best _ form of a proposal, but this was kind of disappointing. Not only was their plan to  _ do good  _ was about to fail, but...god, Emma didn’t know why, but it was  _ disappointing. _

“I—...okay,” she finally said, only then becoming aware that she had just been standing there for a few seconds. “Sure, I’ll...see you around?”

He nodded quickly, and moved to close the door. 

_ Damn it.  _ Emma was frustrated, her hands clenched into fists. She was rooted to the spot, unmoving.  _ Think of something, Emma!  _

“... _ Ilikewhatyousaidaboutmypoem.” _

The words came out forced, rushed. Somehow, she managed to get it all out before the doorhad fully closed. Paul paused. The tension unbearable, Emma added, “I like what you said about my poem this morning, that was really nice of you.”

“Oh...” Paul flushed. “Well, it was a good poem.” 

He peeked out a little more again, a lot more interested now that the subject seemed to have changed. It was funny, she thought, that Paul was always seen as this nervous subject, this recluse that didn’t speak to anyone else and was  _ weird,  _ when he really wasn’t. You just had to get him talking about a subject that he enjoyed. How had it taken her that long to notice?

She smiled at him, a genuine attempt at being reassuring that appeared to work, because he had made his way out the door, and was standing on the step, holding it closed behind him. Paul had an expression on his face that told Emma he  _ knew  _ he was doing something he wasn’t allowed to, but was kind of excited that he was. 

“Yeah, I just...it made me feel good about my writing, I didn’t think it was that...well,  _ good,”  _ she continued, giving a few stray pebbles on the path a little kick.

“Oh, don’t say that!” he smiled, putting his hands behind his back. “It was—” 

All of a sudden, he looked up, staring at her with wide eyes. Emma could swear she heard him mutter, _ “She's awake.”  _ Weird. Emma didn’t hear anything that would indicate that, yet he clearly did. 

“Uh...” He inhaled sharply. “I think you should go—”

_ Shit, the plan _ .  _ Think! Think!  _

“Go to Prom with me and I will,” she blurted out quickly, as Paul darted back inside. He didn’t close the door, however, and instead peered out anxiously.

“But, I...uh...”

_ “Say yes and I’ll go—!” _ _   
_   
“ _ Okay!  _ Okay, okay, I’ll  _ go!”  _ he said finally, darting behind the door and closing it, before reappearing a second later to add, _ “Thank you—!” _

And just like that, he was gone.

If you had asked Emma on Saturday who she was going to Prom with, she would’ve told you that she was going with Bill. They were going to go as friends, just to soak in the party atmosphere, and probably leave early to go to the local burger joint afterwards in their fancy clothes. Never in a million years had she considered taking Paul Matthews to prom as a date. An actual,  _ real _ date. But now? Emma grinned as she put the tickets back into her pocket. She was pretty okay with the idea of taking him. 

In fact, the idea that she was doing it to irritate Linda was well out of her mind at this point, as was the idea that she was doing it for Paul’s sake. She was just doing it because...well, she had said it before, even if she vehemently denied it — something about him was undeniably endearing.

“How’d it go?” Bill asked, walking alongside her.

“I’ve got myself a Prom date,” she replied, excitedly. A split second later, though, her cheery demeanor dropped. “Shit...do you think he’ll need a tux?”

* * *

_ Tuesday 24th, April 1990. 17:52. _

“Okay, okay,  _ okay, okay... _ ” 

Paul paced his room, his heart positively thumping.  _ Emma had asked him to Prom. He was going to Prom.  _ This was not allowed, oh, he was  _ so  _ not allowed to do this, but he’d gone and said  _ yes  _ to her! And he was going to prom! With Emma Perkins! 

“Paul, darling, dinner’s ready!” Mama called from downstairs.

He snapped out of his excited state, the clatter of various objects falling to the floor startling him. He had been  _ levitating things  _ without even realising it? 

“Are you okay, Paul?”

“Uh— _ y-yes—!”  _ he answered hesitantly, placing his comb back on his dresser.

“What was that noise?”

He stammered, wondering what on earth he was supposed to say.

_ Lie. _

“It, uh...I-I just dropped my school bag—!”

He waited for a few seconds with bated breath. The silence told him that the answer probably satisfied her.

_ Learn how to lie better in the future. _

Still riding that excited high, he hurried downstairs to the table, set it faster than he’d ever done in his life, and took his seat. The rain outside was now coming down hard, thunder crackling in the distance, but it did very little to dull how  _ excited  _ he was. His first night out amongst his peers,  _ ever,  _ and in only a few days! It didn’t seem real!

He barely even noticed Mama sitting across from him.

_ Mama. _

Now, that was a bit of an issue. He’d have to tell her at some point that he was going. He knew that going to Prom was something she wouldn’t allow, but he was determined to go. He  _ would  _ go. 

So...how to bring it up? 

Perhaps he could wait until the night of the event but — no, then he’d have to make an excuse as to why he was buying a suit, so that wouldn’t fly. Sneaking out of the house was also out of the question — he was far too clumsy to get away with it, and even then, Prom started at  _ 8:00. _ Mama would still be awake. There was really no getting around this.

“Are you all right, Paul?” she asked from across the table, concern laced in her tone. “You’ve hardly touched your dinner. Is something wrong?”

_ Better now than never. _

“Mama, I—...there’s something I want to do, but I wanted to tell you about it first,” he started, trying to find the most  _ delicate  _ way to bring it up.

She looked mildly surprised, but that was fine. So far,  _ fine.  _ “Of course, what did you want to do?”

“Uh...there’s this girl...”

The atmosphere immediately shifted. The warm light of the kitchen felt hot. As if on cue, lightning flashed. Mama stared at him, her eyes going wide.

“She...I got invited to Prom, Mama. She invited me to Prom. And I want to go with her,” he said finally, the feeling of getting that off his chest somehow not relieving him. Mama stood up and turned away from him. Feeling as though, perhaps, he just needed to make his point a little better, he added, “She’s nice, Mama, I promise, a-and I won’t be out late. I’ll come home once they announce King and Queen. That’s 10:00, only an hour later, then I go to bed.”

She stood still. Was she shaking? Lightning flashed again. Rain pattered in through the open windows, but neither of them were paying attention to that.

“Mama, are you...are you alright?”

“That  _ poor _ girl...” 

Paul froze, thinking for a moment that he’d misheard her. A beat, then his mother spoke again, softly. “I was wrong to let you off so easy. You... _ desire _ her, don’t you?”

He didn’t answer. Yes, he thought Emma was beautiful. He liked everything about her. But the way Mama talked? He wasn’t sure he liked her like  _ that _ .

_ “Don’t you?” _

The question came again, fiercer this time. Paul stayed silent. But he found himself unafraid, like he normally would in situations like this. Instead, he stared defiantly. 

“What did I say...? What did I  _ say _ , Paul?” 

Her voice was gaining that awful, but familiar, harsh tone. “Did I not say that you are becoming a man? I  _ know  _ what men are like Paul, I will not let you—”

“I’m  _ not _ going to hurt her!” he protested, already anticipating the direction she was going. He got to his feet and approached her. “I-I couldn’t, Mama, I  _ couldn’t _ hurt her! There’s nothing  _ wrong _ with me, just because-because I  _ like _ someone!”

Her eyes wide as saucers, she backed into the corner. _ “Get away from me.”  _

Mama looked...scared. Why did he  _ remember  _ that look she gave him? 

_ Why was she scared? _

She screeched: “ _ I SAID, GET AWAY FROM ME! _ ”

_ Hysterical. _

No,  _ distressed _ . Upset. He’d done something again—

—something he couldn’t possibly have predicted. He’d done something to upset her again, and that was going to keep going, and going, and going, for the rest of his life.  _ Why?  _ **_Why?_ **

“Mama, please, tell me what I’m doing wrong, and  _ I’ll do it!” _ Paul pleaded. He’d tried to remain stone-faced, but this was the tipping point, his patience with her method of ‘teaching’ wearing thin. “You can’t just  _ scream _ at me and expect me to know what you mean, Mama!”

She pushed him away, causing him to stumble back against the table. “ _ You are not going to that prom _ .”

“I am  _ going _ to go!” 

He hadn’t gotten this far just to fail. Not when Mr. Hidgens had encouraged him to go, not when his worst enemies had been barred from the event, not when Emma was so persistent to take him she was willing to go to his  _ house  _ to ask him out.

“No!” she spat.

_ Don’t lie down and take it, Paul. _

“Who are you to try and stop me, Mama? I can’t have  _ one night _ to do what I want? To enjoy myself?” he tried, nails digging into the edge of the table. Could he appeal to her emotions?

_ “You’re disgusting!”  _

He couldn’t.

“Don’t I deserve to be  _ happy?” _ Paul asked, breathing heavily now.

“You’re sick! You’re just like the rest, like all those other  _ boys— _ ”

He cut in again. “ _ Aren’t you the one who told me all my life I was different from them? _ Weren’t you  _ just  _ telling me I was a man? What is it,  _ what makes me so wrong from your point of view?  _ I’m not evil, I’m a  _ human being!” _

Mama had retreated back to the corner of the room, her back pressed against the wall, her entire, tall form seeming  _ warped.  _ Her eyes bulged madly. “ _ You are not going to that prom! _ ”

“ _ I’m not going to let you control me!”  _

He was running on pure adrenaline at this point. He felt a hot flush come over him, but shivered as though he’d been dunked into a bath of ice. The world around him was going black. Mama stood out as if she’d been found with a searchlight.

“It is final, Paul!” 

She couldn’t feel the darkness.

“Mama.” 

The light flickered off. Mama flinched at the sudden darkness, the flickering candles casting eerie shadows across the walls, mixing into the darkness, forming shapes Paul had never beheld, shapes he wasn’t sure were  _ real _ .

“Get in the closet,” his mother ordered, attempting to steady her breathing. “You get in there and you stay there until the morning and don’t you  _ dare  _ sleep—”

_ Who is she to try and stop you, Paul? _

“No,” Paul said softly. Lightning. Thunder. The rain got fiercer. It almost sounded like hail.

Mama’s head whipped around, looking for some excuse to get out of this.

_ She doesn’t like that you’re right. _

There was a burning. A  _ fire _ in his head and body, flowing from his head to his fingertips. Hot and cold, just like before. But the force wasn’t overwhelming, like it was yesterday, in the closet. It didn’t feel like it was too much to handle. On the contrary, it felt like just the right amount.

“The rain is coming through the windows,” Mama observed, walking away.

_ Frighten her. _   
  
_ “I’ll get them!” _ he cried. All at once, the power in his head  _ surged _ .

Every window in the house slammed shut with a tremendous  **_BANG_ ** that was  _ music _ to his ears. Mama stumbled back, and screamed.

_ Perfect. _

_ “I KNEW IT!” _

She’d collapsed to the floor, practically sobbing in the immediate terror that his action had brought upon her. Part of him felt awful for scaring her so badly. A bigger part of him was finding it hard to muster up any sympathy. 

_ “JUST — LIKE — YOUR — FATHER!” _

Oh, he was fed up with this. For once, would she just—

_ “Shut up!”  _

Paul found himself speaking, no— he found himself  _ shouting his thoughts _ . When had he started shouting? Why didn’t it sound like him?

“Mama, I am  _ going to that Prom.”  _ His voice wavered like it had before, the kitchen light coming back on. “And you will not  _ stop me.” _

Mama dropped to her knees, rocking back and forth, whimpering. Without much thought to it, Paul  _ smirked. _

“ _ I knew it… _ ”

“I am not afraid of you.”

“ _ I KNEW it… _ ”

“I am not afraid of you at all.”


	9. No photograph could possibly show the you I know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Date of Incident; Saturday 28th, April 1990.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is! The only chapter other than the opener that's completely original to this fic and no other version of Carrie! Can you tell I ship Paulkins? Because I do. As per usual, big fan to aspiringaspie for the edits, they made this chapter a lot more readable than it was. Might be a while before the next chapter, as I have exams coming up, but I'll try my best to stay consistent! Enjoy!

_Saturday 28th, April 1990. 11:32._

It had been three days since the incident on Tuesday night, and Paul’s life seemed to have been turned on its head ever since. 

On that night, after he had calmed down, after that anger had left him, he had felt absolutely awful. He’d left Mama a trembling wreck on the floor, and even if he felt good about finally speaking his mind, about finally standing up to her for once, that wasn’t exactly how he’d imagined it all ending. He had tried to apologise, but she was hysterical. Unsure of what to do, Paul had decided to leave her be and finish his dinner at his desk in his room. He spent the rest of the night there, shaken. Eventually, Mama had recovered. He’d heard her stop crying, and at some point she returned to her sewing. But the damage had been done.

Since then, she had been a completely changed person. The two had barely exchanged any words since other than _good morning, good night, welcome home,_ and _I’ll see you later._ Whenever Paul entered a room, she’d eventually find some way to get out of it, and usually hastily. She seemed to eye him warily all the time, as if he were a ticking time bomb.

It was then that he decided he’d make more of an effort to control his powers. Had he any less control that night, he could’ve _easily_ hurt Mama with his powers, and hurting _anyone_ was the last thing he wanted to do. He was getting far, _far_ stronger, now able to carry furniture without much effort at all, turn the lights off at a whim, and even stop the wind from blowing on his face when he walked to school. Unfortunately, he wasn’t entirely in control of these powers, either. At home, it tended to run a little wild, heightened by his anxiety flaring up. It was at school that he managed to keep them on lock.

Oh yeah. _School_.

School, as a massive contrast to how it had been for the entirety of his life, was _nice_ , specifically ever since Linda had apparently vanished into thin air with the rest of her tight-knit group. Her disappearance had the strangest effect on his life — he was beginning to _fit in._

Not in a major way, really, though. He only really spent time with Emma, and consequently, also spent more time with Bill, who Paul had eventually managed to forgive. It turned out that Bill wasn’t as bad as Paul had thought, actually. Contrary to what he’d thought before, he was a well meaning guy who went out of his way to be nice — someone he genuinely appreciated the friendship of. As for those who’d made fun of him before, the most he ever saw of them were in the classes they shared. Though they were by no means as bold as they were before, he still made out those _vague_ whispers behind their hands.

Oh, the _whispers_.

Since word got out that Emma was taking him to the prom, gossip had stirred as to why, and eventually, all of it managed to get back to Paul.

_Emma’s into him like_ that _?_

_Are they dating?_

_I think they’re a thing, you know…_

_What does she_ see _in him?_

_Did he ask her? No, no, I think_ she _asked_ him—

_When did_ that _happen?_

Why _did that happen?_

_I wonder what they’ll wear to prom…_

_I wonder if they’ll stay together..._

_Do you think they might have_ kissed _?_

_How did_ that _happen?_

Paul and Emma had planned to go and pick up a rental tux from the store — “We’ve kinda left it until the last second,” she’d admitted on Friday, “but I figure we might be able to get it a little cheaper if we go the day of" — and then they’d both go home to get ready. She’d pick him up at 8:00 (he couldn’t drive, so they decided they’d break the tradition of the boy picking up the girl), and then, after the Prom King and Queen were announced, they’d leave. Neither of them particularly wanted to attend any afterparties, so they decided that they’d meet up with Bill afterward (who’d told them himself: “Prom just isn’t really my scene”), and grab dinner at the local burger joint.

That was enough for him. It didn’t sound like much, if you were an outsider looking in, but to Paul, it was enough. _More_ than enough, even. So much so that, from where he stood right now, he anticipated the happiness might last him a lifetime.

He checked the clock on his wall.

_11:34._

Emma would be here any second!  
  
“Calm down, calm _down_ ,” he fretted, sitting on his bed with his wallet — that was all he was taking with him — clasped in his hands.“If _Emma_ saw you like this—”

His dresser was floating about a foot away from the ceiling. 

“Okay…that’s not right,” he said quietly, carefully putting the dresser back down, trying to calm the burning feeling that crossed over him like a wash of summertime breeze.

There was a knock at the door then, snapping Paul out of his stupor, his desk chair falling to the floor with a thud (when had he started carrying _that_ , too?). He hastily pulled it back up, gave one last check in the mirror to make sure he looked presentable, and darted downstairs to the door. Even _this_ was incredibly exciting, and it was just a coffee date.

“I’m going out now, Mama,” he called, stopping next to the door.

“Have fun,” a voice replied absent-mindedly from somewhere in the house. “Don’t spend too much.”

“Won’t!” Paul gave a little grin, opening the door.

There stood Emma, like he expected. She looked a little more dressed-down than she usually did on school days, and her hair was down, as opposed to how she normally styled it: piled into a messy bun on the top of her head. She was smiling, a tote bag slung over her shoulder. 

“How’s the future Prom King doing on this fine day?” she asked as he stepped out and closed the door behind him.

Paul gave a laugh, and shook his head. “I’m not going to be King, no way, no chance.” The two started walking, and he shoved his hands in his pockets. “It’ll be Howard, or-or _Ted_ , or something.”

“ _Howard_ got voted most likely to be _President_ in the yearbook, Paul. He’s hardly royal material, and Ted’s a creep,” Emma scoffed. “What about the Queen though, who do you think that’s gonna be? Charlotte? Maybe Melissa or, _ugh_ ” — Emma pulled a face, rolling her eyes — “ _Zoey._ You know she’s the whole reason I got a day off today? She pleaded with Nora to have a day to get ready for Prom, and so Nora said it’d only be fair if I got one too.”

Paul, honestly, had been thinking about how good of a Prom Queen Emma would be. She had a really nice dress picked out, and was fairly popular, but…well, a Prom Queen had to be elected alongside her King, and that someone was _not_ him. That was when he realised she’d been talking about something else, and blinking rapidly, quickly caught himself back up. “But isn’t that good for you?”

“I mean, _yeah_ ,” she shrugged, “but like...I don’t give _that_ much of a shit about Prom. I’m not getting my hair and makeup done by a professional or anything.” She then gained a coy little grin, glancing up towards the sky. “Oh-ho-ho _man_ , but Linda was! I bet Aunt Priscilla’s _so_ mad that she went and got herself kicked out of Prom after everything she’d spent on it. Bet you’re probably happy about that one, huh?”  
  
He’d never say it out loud, but he certainly did think that was pretty good. The idea of Linda Monroe _finally_ taking the fall for something she did was all the revenge Paul could ever ask for.

* * *

_Saturday 28th, April 1990. 12:03._

The two spent about ten minutes walking into town, chatting the whole way, and then an additional twenty trying to find a suit for Paul at the suit rental place, Carruthers Menswear, that would fit Paul. Eventually, they settled on a nice light gray one and paired it with a tie that just about matched the colour of Emma’s dress. It was still a little short on Paul — the sleeves and trousers showed a bit more of his wrists and ankles than it really was supposed to — but it still looked fine on him.

After the fitting, the pair made their way to the coffee shop Emma worked at, Beanies, finding a random table to occupy after having acquired their meal. The suit was draped on the nearby chair of a vacant table, remaining there as the two sat and chatted. The scent of coffee beans hung heavily in the air, a smell Paul wasn’t familiar with, but didn’t mind in the least.

“I feel bad that you paid for that by yourself, are you sure you don’t want me to pay for half of it, at least?” Emma asked, sitting back with her can of soda. (Paul recalled when Emma had whispered “don’t get the hot drinks” to him as they’d waited in line to order. She’d then added, “We spit in the cups if we don’t like your face, and I don’t know if they like your face because you never go here.”)

Paul shook his head. “No, that’s okay.” He sat back in his seat, getting distracted every so often by the different people he saw going in and out the store. “I’d feel even worse if you did, it’s fine.”

Their conversation dried up for a few seconds. _Come on,_ he thought, _come on, think of something!_

“Uh, that production of, uh…that-that _show_ you were in last month, I thought it—I-I mean, I thought _you_ were good in it,” he fumbled, turning bright red. “You’re a good singer.” 

_Smooth, Paul. Smooooth. How_ do _you do it?_

Though Paul was sure she'd laugh, or reprimand him for even bringing it up, the most she did was chuckle. “You thought I was good? Man, well, the most I can say for it is that I had _some_ fun.” She looked out the window, reminiscing. “But every day I’m thanking _god_ that was our last one.”

“Oh?”

“ _Zoey_ was in it too.”

_“Ohhhh.”_

Paul gave the subject a little more thought.

“You know, I don’t know if I like musicals,” he stated plainly, and continued when Emma simply gave him a look. “Don’t get me wrong, you were really good, but all those people singing and dancing for no reason? It makes me very… _uncomfortable?”_

“Fair enough,” she nodded, and added, “Dani was super fucking pitchy as Fiona, anyway.”

Paul didn’t really know what pitchy meant, but he thought it best to just agree. “You sang really well, though.”  
  
“You think?”

“Yes, you were great,” he reiterated. “Did you ever think of doing that? I mean...singing?” 

She looked a bit blankly at him, so he continued, pulling on what little he knew about how the world worked might help her get his point. “You know…leaving town, getting famous, topping the charts…?”

Instead of replying, Emma sighed, turning a vacant gaze to the window again. Paul wondered if he’d said something to strike a nerve. The table rattled slightly, but Emma didn’t notice it, nor did she notice Paul’s eyes darting down at it, frantically trying to get it to stop.

Finally, she replied.

“Man, I don’t know _what_ I wanna do when I leave school…haven’t thought about it much yet.” Emma twirled a stray lock of her hair around her finger and gave it a little tug, looking distant. “Because, like, when you’ve got such a mega-successful and mega-liked big sister that just graduated last year, it’s big shoes to fill, y’know? She’s got her shit together and I…do not.”

Paul blinked. _Well. That was heavy_.

While Paul was well aware of the fact that maybe bringing up the future like this wasn’t the best thing to do on what was essentially a first date, it had been on his mind lately, so he figured it was bound to come up anyway.

“What about you, Paul? What do you wanna do once you graduate?”

“Uh…”

There it was.

Until this week, until he knew he was going to Prom, and actually having a life of his own, Paul hadn’t even considered what the rest of his life was going to look like. In his head, he just assumed he’d live the rest of his life in Hatchetfield, in the same house, spending the rest of his life in mundanity. He’d thought that maybe he’d get a job at the local office block, or perhaps Mama might like it if he’d become a preacher. 

But ever since he’d been invited to Prom, ever since his powers had come to light, ever since he realised there was a world out there, outside the lace curtains and the picket fences? The idea of the future he imagined no longer seemed comfortable, but _miserable_ . Hatchetfield wasn’t his safe haven — it was a _prison._

Emma, noticing that he seemed to be rather lost for a proper answer too, cut in before he could come up with a lame excuse for his silence. “It’s fine, it’s fine. We can have no direction whatsoever together, yeah?”

And just like that, the uncomfortable fear that had bubbled up in him had subsided, and the anxiety passed. “Yeah, I like that.”

To think that he wasn’t the only one feeling like that was reassuring. It might not even just be him and Emma that had no idea what the rest of their life would be like. After Prom, it was graduation, and then after graduation? The world was their oyster. For the first time in Paul’s life, uncertainty was something that was _exciting_.

Emma checked her watch then, noticing the time. 

“Oh jesus, I should probably get back, I’ve gotta put together those flowers for your tux.” She hastily finished her drink, and stood up, slinging her bag back over her shoulder. “Are you ok to make your own way back?”

Paul’s eyes widened and he nodded. “O-Oh, yeah, sure!” 

“All right, I’ll see you at 8:00...” She gave him a wink. _“Prom King.”_


	10. Let the shadows descend like a knife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hatchetfield Senior Prom, 1990, started at 8:00pm, and ended some time around 10:00pm, though nobody's interests were with recording the time it occurred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're at the double digits now! Four more chapters left, where has the time gone? Big thanks to aspiringaspie for the edits, yet again, and also, a game for the readers - I slipped in a little cheeky reference to American Psycho in the last chapter for fun, since I've been listening to the musical nonstop. See if you can find it!

_Saturday 28th, April 1990. 19:52._

Paul stood in the middle of his room, tapping his foot to the floor nervously as he smoothed out the wrinkles in his button-up tuxedo shirt. Facing the tiny mirror in his room, he ran a comb through his hair, slicking it back. He hummed to himself, recalling a song he’d heard on the radio in the café earlier; he turned his head from side to side, eyes glued to his reflection, making sure his hair was decent. 

_Not bad, not bad,_ he thought, though he was still wondering if he was _actually_ doing this right. From what he could gather from the small reflection, his face was clean, his hair looked as good as it would ever get, and the suit looked nice on him. He looked like any other teenage boy getting ready for Prom, not that _weirdo_ that sat in the back of class. It was a little comforting, in a way. To look so generic that he wouldn’t be noticed at all, so he practically didn’t exist. So Emma could _outshine_ him, like she deserved to. All he could ask for was to enjoy the night in peace, completely unseen.

_You know that’s not true, Paul._

“...what?” he whispered aloud. He shook his head. He _had_ to be imagining things.

Emma would be here in seven minutes. They'd go to Prom and have a nice evening.

_Everyone will stare at you._

He put down his comb, and looked around the room wildly. Was he hearing things?

_You'll be the center of attention tonight._

“Calm _down_ ,” he snapped at himself, his self-doubt incredibly persistent. At the same time, unbeknownst to him at first, some books flew off his shelf, hitting the wall opposite and denting it. Paul jolted in surprise, moving to clear them up, hoping, _praying_ that nothing like that would happen at Prom. His life would take a definite turn for the worse if he lost control. 

Paul didn't even know himself what was causing the powers to flare up so often. It was as if they had a mind of their own. To be honest, he didn't _particularly_ want to know where they came from, nor did he want to be the subject of some massive government conspiracy or whatever. He didn't even like physics class, never mind military-grade laboratories, or—

“Prom's hard enough,” Paul cut his train of thought off, sighing. “Don't _scare_ yourself with all that.” 

The dust that had fallen over his bed neatly levitated into his trash can, an intentional use of the power, and he cursed his own hyperactive imagination for even coming up with something like that.

“Are you alright?” called Mama's voice from downstairs.

It was funny — that was the most concern she'd shown for him all week. Before Paul could even answer, he heard footsteps ascending the stairs, and then suddenly, Mama was in the doorway, seeing the last of the dust float into the trash can. Her eyes were wide again, but she stayed silent, hovering in the doorway anxiously. 

_She looks a lot like you when she's nervous, doesn't she?_

"I'm fine, Mama, just...uhm...” He searched for a word, noticing Mama hadn't blinked. “On _edge.”_

At that, her expression softened considerably, but not exactly in a good way. The terror was replaced by sorrow that looked just as wrong on her as her manic rage did. He hated to see her crying; she didn't deserve to be so _sad._

“Oh, _Paul_ …” she began, and his heart soared because she was talking to him again (he’d _really_ missed that), before she unceremoniously sank again as she continued. “How did I _fail_ you like this?”

_No._ He would not let her do this. Not tonight. Tonight was _his_ night.

“Emma will be here in five minutes,” he said casually, busying himself by adjusting his bow tie, even if he'd fixed it about six times already. “Do I look good?”

“It's not too late to say no, Paul. Stay here with me—”

_“No.”_ He cut her off, trying to repress the swelling anxiety. “I'm nervous enough, Mama, stop it—”

“Paul, they'll _laugh_ at you, like you say they do, they'll _laugh_ at you and break your _heart,”_ she continued, undeterred. Suddenly, she was upon him, placing her hands on his shoulders in an attempt at a hug that made him freeze up. “I am only looking out for my _son—”_

“Mama, no they _won't_ , the people who usually do aren’t going to be there,” Paul told her firmly, careful as he gently pushed her off with his powers, such a gentle shove it could've been delivered by a breeze. It seemed even _that_ was enough to rattle her. Paul was full of guilt as he watched her stumble back to the doorway, clutching the front of her shirt, sweat beading on her forehead. “Stop _staring_ at me like that, Mama."

But she wouldn't stop staring. Like many times before, _exactly_ like many times before, he sensed the shift in the atmosphere in the room. Maybe a few days ago, Paul would have put it down to feeling the presence of God with them, amongst them, but now he wasn't so sure what _it_ was. All he knew was that, undeniably, there was a _change._

“Don't,” Paul said coldly, preemptively, not even turning to face her. Yet, he still _felt_ her. Her constantly hovering presence was starting to make him _lose his patience._ “Go _away,_ Mama—”

“I’ll say you're _sick,_ Paul, I'll tell her you changed your mind and you don't want to go—”

_“No.”_

Fed up, he whipped around and _pushed_ her onto his bed — not physically, of course. The idea of touching her just made him feel nauseated, no matter how much he _missed_ her. Mama shrieked, but he wasn't listening. “Mama, you'll _stay here_ until I leave.”

His mother stumbled to her feet, her breathing sharp, shallow, _strange,_ her arms shaking _wildly_ . All of a sudden, her voice had reached that horrible octave it always seemed to hit when she got like this: _“Paul, you are NOT — GOING!!!”_

There was a knock at the front door.

Paul looked up, and made for the door, but Mama ran to block him. But he wasn’t having it. She _wouldn’t_ ruin this. 

“I am _going_ , Mama," he pressed in a hushed tone, conscious of the noise that could potentially carry to the front door. “I'm going and that is final, now _please_ move.”

She stared at him. She didn't move.

“I said,” he persisted, danger in his tone, _“move.”_

And Mama did move, as she was once again flung sideways onto the bed by an invisible force — _by him._ He knew he didn't hurt her, he would know if he did, but it was as he had decided — _Mama was not going to ruin this_. 

That being said, as soon as he was out of the threshold of his room, guilt swamped him like a heavy blanket that had been thrown over his head. Mama remained sprawled out on her black, her eyes bugged out, staring at the ceiling and muttering something indistinctly. He doubted she would listen to him — he doubted she could even _hear_ him — but Paul spoke anyway, blinking back tears:

"I'm sorry, Mama. I love you."

And with that, Paul scurried down the stairs to the door as he heard Emma give another knock, pulling it open.

Emma looked absolutely radiant. She had put a bit of a curl into her hair, having even pinned some little blue flowers into it. Her blue dress looked even nicer on her than it did just hanging up: baby-blue, long enough that it reached her ankles, sleeveless and strapless. Mama probably wouldn't approve of the dress, or of Emma as a whole. Paul imagined she wouldn't like that Emma's shoulders were out, or how much Emma cursed, but Paul thought she was perfect. _Better_ than perfect.

“What, have I got you lost for words?” she commented, in response to (and Paul realised this all too late) the starstruck expression he was wearing. “It's not much, but—”

“Emma, you look _amazing,”_ he said with a breathless smile, hoping he wasn't blushing, though he could feel his cheeks burning. The altercation with his mother was completely forgotten.

She shrugged, leading him down the path to her car, which was idling outside the gate, some pop-ballad playing over the radio. “You look great, too,” Emma remarked, looking up at the sky, a pitch black canopy over the evening with brilliant white stars dotting it. “Oh! Almost forgot—”

Emma handed Paul what looked like a tiny little bouquet of the same flowers she had put in her hair. He stared down at them quizzically as they walked, turning them about in his hands.

“For your _tux,_ dumbass,” she chuckled, taking them back and slipping them into the buttonhole of his suit, where they complimented his tie perfectly. “So we _match._ They're forget-me-nots.”

" _Ohhh,_ " he said, a little dumbly, and the two proceeded towards her car again. Even though she was driving, he figured he'd be the gentleman, still, and darted ahead to open the door for her. Maybe it was the wrong thing to do, but he was _so_ excited, it was starting to make Paul a little giddy.

“Uh-huh, thank you!” Emma said with a smile. She didn't laugh at him, finding herself a little charmed, and possibly just as _infected_ by the excitement of the evening. Paul scurried around to the passenger side and got in, buckling up. 

The pop-ballad was just ending as Emma revved the engine, and they set off for the night of both of their lives.


	11. Grab your date and hold tight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first two hours of the Prom, nothing was amiss. The students had the night of their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello folks! You may be looking at the amount of chapters on this fic, and going "Hey, wasn't there only 14 chapters when I last checked this thing?"
> 
> And you'd be right, there was! But, when writing this chapter, I realised it was going to end up unreasonably long if I didn't do something about it, so the events that were previously all contained in one chapter have been split up into this one, and the next chapter. It does mean you guys will have to wait a little longer for the climax of the prom, but I'm still developing ideas for that, so I'm hoping this extra time will make it all the better when it DOES come around.
> 
> In the meantime, enjoy what I can definitively say IS the most lighthearted chapter of this story!

_ Saturday 28th, April 1990. 20:12. _

When the car finally pulled to a halt in the parking lot of the school, and Emma switched off the radio, the gravity of the situation finally hit Paul. He would’ve gotten out of the car, but the sight of all those students filing into the gym — which was  _ glowing _ with party lights — made him unbelievably anxious. He stared at them, eyes wide, and found himself unable to move, his breaths coming in short gasps. Hot flashes and cold chills ran across his skin.

“Hey.”

Paul felt a hand on his lap.

“Hey, you okay?” Emma looked up at him, not budging from her seat either. He couldn’t believe Emma wasn’t feeling the force of his powers now, as he tried to push them back. But just the mere  _ thought _ of going into that building had them longing to run wild.

He still could barely breathe, and  _ Emma? _ She was just staring at him.

“I’m sorry, I—”

“No, it’s ok,” she spoke with a distinct understanding of how he felt, looking up at him with sympathy. “We can wait. As long as you need to.” 

As if to balance him out, Emma was calm. Already feeling more at ease, Paul let his hand come to a rest on top of Emma’s, holding it tightly. She held it back, and gave it a squeeze. 

_ Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In... _

“I don’t think I…maybe this was a  _ mistake _ , Emma,” Paul said finally, a little calmer, but still so pent up (he swore he heard Mama’s voice mixed in amongst the indistinct chatter coming from the gym). “Maybe we shouldn’t go. I don’t think they’ll…like me.” 

And there it was. His face fell, but at the same time, finally admitting that felt like a weight off his chest. He expected Emma to be disappointed in him then, to yell at him for being so unreasonably anxious, but she just shook her head.

“Paul,  _ look at me _ ,” Emma said firmly, looking him in the eyes. “If you don’t want to go in there, that’s fine, but you need to give yourself the chance to open up to more people than just Bill and me.”

_ She’s right,  _ he thought, expelling a breath as he processed her words. “Okay,” he said, gulping. “Okay, okay, okay,  _ okay, _ okay.” 

_ Ground yourself, Paul _ . 

After a few more quiet moments wherein Paul managed to steady his breathing, Emma piped up again.

“Do you want to go in?” she asked, looking back at the gymnasium, hearing the muffled song from inside fade out and segue into the next one. “You’re under no pressure, we don’t have to do this. I admit, it’s a  _ lot.” _

_ Now or never. _

“Sure, let’s go.”

And before he could talk himself back down, Paul unclipped his seatbelt and got out of the car, darting around to the other side to let Emma out, at which she laughed. They walked to the entrance, hand-in-hand, giving the tickets to the teacher manning the doors. Stepping past the threshold, Paul realized that he didn’t feel nearly as anxious as he had a mere moment ago, when he’d been sitting in Emma’s car. It was because of  _ her _ that he could manage it. Even though the experience would’ve been a disaster for him in any other situation, when he held her hand, he felt... _ safer. _

At first, nobody even noticed Emma and Paul as they entered through the double doors, giving Paul a few blissful moments to take in the scene, at which he gasped. The gymnasium, previously a rather plain and boring room, had been  _ entirely  _ made over. Silver paper cut-out stars and streamers dangled from the ceiling, with blue garlands criss-crossing over the ceiling and fairy lights adorning the walls, glowing softly. About fifteen tables had been set out, each one surrounded by chairs and draped in a white tablecloth, decorated with unlit candles, and lined with glittery papercraft centerpieces. Some students flitted from table to table, chatting with their friends, and some bopped about on the dance floor as the teacher chaperones watched over the whole thing.

“Oh my god,  _ we match the decorations,”  _ he heard Emma say, and she rolled her eyes, to which Paul nodded vaguely. “Looks like fun, though. Wanna find our table?” 

It  _ did  _ look like fun. A beautiful painting that didn’t need the unsightly blot of ink that was Paul Matthews.

_ No, no, don’t think like that, _ he thought, and Paul realised he was smiling at Emma.  _ You can do this, you’ve gotten this far. _

“ _ Sure, _ let’s go.”

As the two proceeded to their assigned table — the one furthest away from the dance floor — people finally began to take notice of the unlikely pair. Some stared in disbelief (or admiration?). Some paid no mind. There were whispers behind hands. There was a laugh. _ “Paul, they'll laugh at you,” _ he heard Mama say in the back of his head, but he pushed it back. 

No.  _ No.  _ None of that, not tonight. He  _ would  _ have fun, even if people stared. 

They  _ weren’t _ laughing at him, he knew that, he  _ knew  _ that. They were laughing because they were at their senior prom, and having the night of their lives, and Paul was ready to have that night right along with them.

The pair pushed through the crowd, and Paul locked eyes with Mr. Hidgens, who was at the teachers’ table, overseeing the event. He could swear he saw the biology teacher (who looked about ten years younger all dressed up for the prom)  _ smile _ at him, but before Paul could clarify that, they reached their table. Already sat there were a few people, students Paul recognised but didn’t really know all that well. Still, they smiled as the couple approached, which he took as a good sign.

“Oh, hi, Emma!” A curly haired brunette girl dressed in mint green looked up from her glass of punch, smiling brightly. “And Paul, you two look great together! Your seats are next to me.”

“Thanks, Charlotte.” Emma sounded nice, but Paul had spent enough time around her to recognise the tone in her voice. He  _ knew _ that Emma didn’t think much of Charlotte. To him, she looked nice, even if she reminded him a little bit of the presenters on the Christian TV shows Mama would put on when he was a kid: kind of saccharine. 

_ For the love of all that is holy, stop thinking about Mama,  _ Paul thought furiously, deciding to sit next to Charlotte so that Emma could get some distance. 

“T-Thank you! Who are you here with, Charlotte?” he asked politely, summoning up all of the experience he’d had at church meetings. As she answered,  _ Heaven is a Place on Earth  _ began playing over the speakers...

_ Ooh, baby, do you know what that’s worth? _

_ “Ted.”  _ A pink blush covered Charlotte’s face as she eyed the empty seat to her right. Emma pulled a disgusted face at that. Mercifully, Charlotte didn’t notice. “He’s getting drinks for the rest of the table.”

“Ah, right.” Paul recalled that Emma had called Ted a creep earlier today, and wondered if that was actually true.

_ Ooh, heaven is a place on earth... _

Paul looked over to the dance floor, where couples were dancing happily, and for a moment, he considered inviting Emma to go and dance with him, to get her away from the table, but…

_ They say in heaven, love comes first... _

...he  _ couldn’t _ dance, and he wasn’t about to embarrass her, or himself, like that.

_ We’ll make heaven a place on earth _

_ Ooh, heaven is a place on earth... _

After a few awkward, silent seconds, Charlotte left, mumbling something about going to find Ted, leaving Paul and Emma practically alone to themselves. With the drums and guitars and synths of the song overtaking the air, he sat contentedly and took in the scene a little more. Maybe this wasn’t a very good prom, maybe it was even  _ bad, _ but this whole place certainly felt like heaven to him. In fact, he almost, for a second, felt like he  _ belonged here _ .

“This is nice,” Paul mused, mostly to himself, caught up in the moment.

Emma squinted, turning to look at him. “What was that?”

_ Did I say that out loud? _

“Uh…” He absent-mindedly tapped his hands on the table in time to the music, still looking ahead, sitting forward in his chair. “It’s-It’s nice here, I like it.”

Emma leaned forward in her seat, grinning ear to ear, popping into Paul’s field of vision. How had he failed to notice how  _ pretty  _ she looked? At his front door, it was one thing, but in here, with the dreamlike lights strewn about, and the sparkling decorations? He couldn’t help but admire Emma for a few seconds, heat growing on his cheeks, a shy smile beginning to dawn on his face.

“Told you it’d be fine. You’re a natural, man.” She sat back, tucking a lock of curled hair behind her ears. “You just tell me if you want to get up and dance, okay—”

“Is that _ Paul Matthews?!” _

A female voice cut Emma off, attracting the attention of them both. The girl who spoke approached the table quickly. She was pretty and tall, with a fairly expensive looking dress on, well-done makeup, and a pair of large, square glasses on her face. Paul broke out into a sweat, his anxiety skyrocketing.

“Oh, u-um, hi…” Paul gave Emma a nervous glance as if to ask  _ Is this okay?  _ He waited for a few dread-filled seconds as the girl sat down in Charlotte’s empty seat.

“Oh. My.  _ God.” _ The bespectacled girl clapped her hands to punctuate each word, before continuing with a bright look on her face, sparkling eyes magnified by her glasses. “If I had known you were going to clean up so nicely, I would’ve asked  _ you  _ instead of what’s-his-name over there.” 

She rolled her eyes and jerked her head to the dance floor, where her presumed date was getting down to _Love Shack_ of all songs, the song that had replaced Belinda Carlisle’s passionate romantic belting.

“Oh!” Well, that certainly wasn’t what Paul was expecting from a girl that he was sure he’d seen hanging around  _ Linda’s _ group at some point, but it was a nice surprise nonetheless. Stunned and unbelievably happy, he acknowledged the girl with a shake of his head. “Thank y-you so much!”

“Hey, don’t you go stealing my date, Melissa,” Emma said playfully, leaning on the table with her elbow and placing her head in her hand. “I got him first!” 

Well, she  _ sounded  _ playful, but Paul sensed an emotional surge of… _ something  _ from Emma. He’d put that notion away for now.

Just as the girl —  _ Melissa _ — responded with a good-natured giggle, someone else put a hand on her shoulder, standing behind her. Paul looked up, and—

_ “Zoey,” _ Emma spoke with the most venom he’d ever heard her muster, and quite frankly, he felt just about the same. Seeing her again invariably reminded him of Monday afternoon, and then of Tuesday after school. But he wasn’t going to let her do whatever she wanted to do here.

“Oooh,  _ hey Paul~ _ Don’t you two look _ …nice…”  _ Zoey’s voice was positively  _ dripping _ with insincere flattery, as if Linda Monroe herself had become a ghost and possessed her. “And those flowers are so  _ unique, _ Emma, very  _ you.”  _

Paul couldn’t help but think it was very rich of her to be acting like this, when the dress she was wearing was a tacky, purple  _ eyesore.  _ He didn’t know much about fashion, but Paul was pretty sure Zoey was doing something wrong, here.

“Could you, uh,  _ get bent,  _ Zoey?” Emma snapped, before giving the girl a rather pleasant smile and a wave goodbye. “Thank you, have a nice evening.”

Melissa snorted, and Zoey’s mouth fell open in shock. It was clear that this was the first time Emma had said something like this to her, and quite possibly, it was the first time Zoey had ever heard an insult directed _towards_ her. Yet, despite the shock, she remained, standing her ground. Not on _his_ watch. Paul was going to make sure that _nothing would ruin this evening._ Not Mama, and certainly not anyone like _her._

“Yeah…g-get  _ bent!”  _ he heard himself parrot Emma, and thankfully  _ that  _ was enough to get Zoey to run off, wounded that, of all people, someone like  _ Paul Matthews  _ had managed to insult  _ her _ . 

Emma threw her head back and laughed, and this time it was Melissa’s turn to look shocked. Paul was proud. _So that’s what it looks like when someone else gets told that,_ he thought, folding his arms, rather satisfied with himself

“Get you, little Mister Bible-Study!” Emma finally recuperated from her laughing fit enough to speak, still being wracked by giggles. “Oh-Oh my  _ god  _ Paul, where’d  _ that  _ come from?”

His smile faded. “Sorry...was it too much?”

“Don’t apologise, that was great, oh my  _ god?” _ Melissa said in disbelief, taking off her glasses to wipe a few tears of laughter away. “I don’t think I’ve heard you use such a strong insult, and I knew you in  _ preschool. _ ”

He felt his cheeks grow hot again. “I only copied Emma, c’mon…”

“Still,” Emma chuckled, punching playfully at his shoulder. “I love it comin’ from you, Paul”

Paul felt a strange feeling of  _ accomplishment _ wash over him, one that completely dulled his nerves. He had done it — he had  _ actually  _ done it! He’d made it all the way to Prom, and was now sat in amongst everyone, and nobody was staring! They were talking  _ with  _ him! 

The funky synths floating through the air faded out, to be replaced by a soft guitar song. The female singer crooned;

_ You with the sad eyes _

_ Don't be discouraged _

“Oh, I  _ love  _ this song,” Emma looked up hopefully. Paul recalled that he had heard the same singer on the radio on the car when Emma picked him up. What had the DJ said her name was?  _ Cyndi-  _ something?

_ Oh I realize _

_ It's hard to take courage _

_ In a world full of people _

Paul considered his options. Sure, they could sit here all night, listening to the music, chatting with everyone who came by, but… But that wasn’t what a prom was for. If they got all dressed up just to sit around, then what was even the  _ point? _

_ You can lose sight of it all _

_ And the darkness inside you _

_ Can make you feel so small _

Paul steeled his nerves, and  _ finally _ plucked up the courage to ask Emma what he had wanted to ask her ever since they set foot into this place: “Do you...wanna dance with me?”

Emma looked at him for a few seconds, and he could  _ swear  _ he saw her gasp. Before he could backtrack on what he said, Emma took Paul’s hand, her eyes shining.

“God, I better go join Howard, he’ll wanna dance, too...” Melissa, sensing the moment, got up, and darted off rather quickly. “See you guys!”

Emma didn’t even take notice of her absence, focused on Paul and Paul only as she finally answered.  _ “Sure.”  _

With that, they proceeded to the dancefloor for the first time that night.

_ But I see your true colors _

_ Shining through _

The couple found an empty spot, right underneath a garland of silver stars, and tried to ignore the fact that there were most  _ certainly _ eyes on them. Paul didn’t care if people were staring. 

_ Let them stare.  _

His left hand held Emma’s right one, their fingers interlocking, and hesitantly, he placed the other on her waist. He remembered learning how to dance like this when he was younger, how he was told to keep a Bible-length apart, but that wasn’t exactly possible when Emma had to reach up so far to put her other hand on his shoulder.

“You’re so  _ tall _ ,” she muttered with a grin, looking up at him as the two began to sway to the music.

_ I see your true colors _

_ And that's why I love you _

“S-Sorry...” Paul felt shaky, as if his knees were going to buckle any second and send him stumbling to the floor. His heart was beating a million miles a minute. Emma giggled. 

“Don’t be sorry.” She rested her head on his chest, looking off to the side at all the other couples. “I like it.” 

Paul stopped breathing for a second.

_ So don't be afraid to let them show _

_ Your true colors _

_ True colors are beautiful _

_ Like a rainbow _

If he couldn’t believe that he was at Prom before, he certainly couldn’t believe he was doing  _ this _ . On Monday morning, going to Prom wasn’t even a thought in his head. And yet, here he was. It was almost certainly too good to be true. He knew he was here because Bill’s conscience was weighed down because of what happened after gym class, but…Paul  _ didn’t care. _

He was here, dancing with Emma Perkins, and that was what  _ really _ mattered.

“I’m not a good dancer,” he said, having spent a few seconds simply  _ taking in the moment.  _ He couldn’t stop smiling.

“Nobody here is, Paul,” Emma returned to looking up at him. “It’s senior prom, not dancing with the stars.”

_ If this world makes you crazy _

_ And you've taken all you can bear _

“Hey, get down here,” Emma said quietly, all of a sudden, reaching up and giving his bow tie a gentle tug.

Paul giggled.  _ “What?” _

“You heard me, get down here, with us short folks.”

He wasn’t exactly sure where this was going, but he leaned down a little anyway. He was about a foot taller than her; it was funny how he didn’t really notice things like that until now.

_ You call me up _

_ Because you know I’ll be there _

Emma closed the gap between them, put her hands on his cheeks, and planted a kiss on his lips.

Paul decided, right then and there, that if God struck him dead right now, he’d die the happiest person ever. 


	12. As we set our dreams into motion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They announced the Prom King and Queen a minute before 10pm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahaha...
> 
> Haha...
> 
> Ha...
> 
> Geez. This is it, the chapter before the storm. For real, though, I hope you all enjoy this, because now I've written it, I'm finally at the chapter I've been dying to write for the WHOLE FIC. So, look forward to that. And enjoy this, and thank you to some friendos from the Paul Loving House discord server for lending their names to the Prom Ballots!

_Saturday 28th, April 1990. 21:36._

It had been an hour since Paul and Emma had kissed, and neither of them had been able to stop smiling since.

When “True Colours” had faded out and the two made their way back to the table, hand-in-hand, Paul felt as though he was floating on cloud nine. Ted, who had returned to the table at some point, wolf whistled and slapped Paul on the back — “Since when did you get _game,_ Matthews?” Paul had heard him laugh — and Charlotte had immediately descended on Emma. She began gushing about how _romantic_ the whole thing was, and suddenly Emma didn’t look too bothered by her anymore.

They had kissed, and it _still didn’t feel real_.

Sure, in the grand scheme of things, this meant very little — they weren’t dating (not _yet,_ anyway) — but it was still _pretty great._

“Hey, did you guys _seriously_ fucking put yourselves down for King and Queen?” Ted asked from across the table then, holding the ballot that had just been handed to him up.

“What?” said Emma, confused. “No...? Unless someone else nominated us, but, uh...” 

She gave Paul a glance. Paul, who would normally assume this was the setup for a prank, legitimately had _no idea_ what to think of this. He hadn’t even considered himself eligible, and he knew that Emma wouldn’t really want to be up on the stage either. The only answer he could provide them with was, “I-I didn’t do it...?” 

He looked at his own ballot, and sure enough, it read as follows:

**_HATCHETFIELD HIGH PROM 1990_ **

**_VOTE FOR YOUR PROM ROYALTY!_ **

**_Howard Goodman and Melissa Buckley_ **

**_C.J. Nolan and Norrie Shyres_ **

**_Aster Ross and Rose Snell_ **

**_Lloyd Collins and Mari Spacek_ **

**_Paul Matthews and Emma Perkins_ **

There it was, in black and white, with a neat little check box next to their names—

_Paul Matthews and Emma Perkins. VOTE FOR YOUR PROM ROYALTY!_

Another song faded in, the same song that was on the radio when she picked him up earlier, as Paul gave Emma an alarmed look. Immediately, she noticed that look he gave.

“It’s fine,” she assured him. “It was probably Bill, he’s sappy like that.”

“Yeah... _Yeah.”_ Paul nodded after a moment. “You’re probably right.” 

Still, he just couldn’t _shake_ that uneasy feeling that came over him in the moment. Wouldn’t Bill have told them if he was going to do this? Or was this genuinely meant as a nice surprise, and Bill had _severely_ underestimated how anxious it would make Paul?

_Don’t think about it, don’t think about it,_ Paul thought quickly, trying to put any unease out of his head. _Someone else will get voted in and I’ll be happy for them. It’s fine._

“Who do we vote for?” Paul scanned the list, seeing nobody he really knew. He considered putting a tick next to Howard and Melissa, the only couple he’d actually _met_ at this point.

Emma tapped the pen she’d been given on the table, scanning up and down the list and frowning. “Uhm...why not ourselves?”

Paul looked up at her at that, astonished. _“What?!_ We-We can't do _that!”_

“Sure we can!” She shrugged, ticking their names. “They’re anonymous.”

_“Emma,_ you can’t just...”

But Paul gave it a little more thought. Really, he knew the chances of them being voted in was slim to none. If it was Emma and someone else, sure, but he _knew_ he dragged her down in the eyes of the student population. They didn’t have a chance at all. So...

“...oh, _okay.”_   
  
And so, with that, he put a tick next to _Paul Matthews and Emma Perkins_ , grinning.

“Hell yeah! Teenage rebellion!” Emma cheered, waving her own ballot in the air in celebration. “To the _devil_ with false modesty!”

Paul hesitated. The _devil?_ He almost heard Mama again. But after everything that had happened tonight, she was nothing but a faint memory in the back of his head.

“Y-Yeah! To the devil!”

* * *

_Saturday 28th, April 1990. 21:48._

_You were workin’ as a waitress in a cocktail bar_

_When I met you_

_I picked you out, I shook you up and turned you around_

_Turned you into someone new_

Gary grimaced, having realised all too late what a _bad_ spot Linda had picked for them to hide: underneath the stage where the Prom King and Queen would stand, right by the speakers, which were now positively _blasting_ “Don’t You Want Me?”. He had decided he didn’t like that song anymore.

“How long now?” he asked Linda over the din, who was sitting rather primly a little further away from the speakers, perfectly fine, hearing _undamaged_. 

She checked her watch. “Ten minutes.” Linda looked up at him, a smirk crossing her face. “What, are you _scared~?”_

"Wha—no! _No,_ I just—...” Gary paused, and picked his next words very carefully. “I think this might be _too much_ , Linda.”

She stared, expression completely unreadable. For a few, _tense_ seconds, it was just her, Gary, and the thumping music. He couldn’t tear his eyes away. That was the _wrong_ thing to say.

“What,” came the flat response, but Gary knew what it demanded: _Explain yourself, now._

Gary thought back to all the set-up that had gone into this plot against Paul Matthews. Zoey spending hours ticking off fake ballots; Sam hauling a heavy bucket of some _ominously_ red liquid into the gym when no one was there (Gary thought better than to ask _where_ he got it from); Linda setting up her own alibi so perfectly that there was _no_ feasible way she wouldn’t get off scot free. Then, several hours before the prom, the two of them hurriedly shuffling under the stage, Linda pressing a cord into Gary’s hands, saying “I want _you_ to do it for me, _pleeease?”_

He was a _fool_ for not telling her no.

“This whole prank, it’s...I don't think it’s fair. I think we should just leave,” he said simply, peeking out the streamers to the prom at large, watching Zoey walk past, a stack of ballots clutched in her hand. “Let him have just one—”

“Gary, we did _not_ get this far just to fail.” She looked positively _outraged_ at the suggestion that what they were about to do was _wrong_ in some way. Gary’s words died in his throat. _“Nobody_ does what he did to me and gets away with it.”

_He didn’t do anything to you,_ Gary couldn’t help but think, frustrated now. There was no use in vocalizing it. _Fine. Whatever. Okay._

“Linda, I _know_ , but—” Again, making sure he said the right thing before Linda _exploded,_ Gary hesitated. “But isn't this _too much?_ Sure, _maybe_ the guy has something coming to him, but-but I’m pretty sure this legally counts as _assault.”_

“That's why _you’re_ pulling the rope, you fucking dolt.” She rolled her eyes, and then eyed the doorway behind the stage, which they had left cracked open a foot, letting cool air roll over them. “If you don’t like it, _there’s_ the door. Since when did you go so soft on him, anyway?”

Gary wondered exactly the same thing. He didn’t like his cousin. Once upon a time, as kids, they got on, but his mom was _weird,_ and when they both ended up attending the same highschool after years of never seeing one another, Paul had become weird in the _same way._ He _didn’t_ like Paul. So why did he feel bad about this?

“I’m _not,_ I just...whatever,” he sighed, still considering fleeing right now. The time on Linda’s watch told him he had a minute at best to make up his mind. Sure, he’d lose her respect (and her protection) for the rest of the term. But...was it even _worth it,_ at this point? He’d missed out on his own prom to do this. To do her petty bidding.

“As soon as the song ends, they’ll be in place,” Linda changed the subject, peeking through the streamers alongside Gary. Zoey gave her a subtle wink. “That's when you pull it.”

“I know.”

_How_ many times had they gone over this plan? He had thirty seconds to leave.

_Make up your mind, Gary, make up your mind. This isn’t right. You’re better than this._

“...Linda, I’m sorry, I can’t do th—”

But Linda put an arm out to stop him before he could shuffle out from under the stage and run away into the night. The music had gone eerily quiet, as had the voices in the room. They were going to announce the King and Queen.

_Too late_.

* * *

_Saturday 28th, April 1990. 21:58._

_“Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you, the King and Queen of the Hatchetfield High Senior Prom: Paul Matthews and Emma Perkins!”_

Paul’s mouth fell open in shock. The impossible had become possible. 

“Oh my god...” he muttered under his breath, eyes wide and staring. He looked around, and slowly, _little by little,_ everyone began to clap. They began to clap for him, for _Emma._ They began to cheer, they began to whistle.

He rose out of his seat, suddenly feeling out of his depth again. But Emma took his hand, and he was _safe_ again, no longer drowning in fear, Grounded in the moment. She smiled at him, and he smiled back, feeling tears roll down his cheeks. Maybe he’d be mocked for crying about this on Monday morning, but he couldn’t _help it_ . He’d won their approval. He _wasn’t_ the outcast anymore. It was a miracle.

“Told you we could do it, _Prom King,”_ she leaned in and whispered to him as they stepped onto the stage. They were decorated with their rhinestone crowns and sashes, while someone handed Emma a bouquet of roses. She looked so, _so_ perfect. And Paul dared to think that he looked perfect too.

Paul Matthews didn’t know how to talk to people, but now he did. He used to act like a jerk for no goddamn reason, but at that _moment_ he made a vow to do better. Not a goddamn freak, not the puppet or mouthpiece of his mother’s beliefs, but that quiet guy that was actually pretty nice when you got to know him. Prom King. _Liked. Respected. Cared about. Seen._

He looked out over the crowd of smiling students, feeling so electrified, he could _fly_.

If only he’d looked up in time to see the bucket of pig’s blood before it cascaded down over his head.


	13. An eagle is just another bird until he can spread his wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 114 residents dead.

_ Saturday 28th, April 1990. 22:00. _

The world went silent, like someone had hit the mute button on a TV remote.

_ (oh my god oh my god oh my god my god oh my god oh my god) _

Red. There was red in his vision. A liquid spilling down his face. Red, coppery, rotten, freezing cold. Oh god,  _ oh god.  _ Blood. It was  _ blood.  _

_ (our Father who art in Heaven oh god oh god) _

He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. He could only stand and stare at his hands.  _ Blood.  _ **_Blood._ ** He was covered in blood and he could’t he couldn’t he  _ couldn’t—! _

“Emma…?” he whimpered. She helped ground him. She helped him. But she wasn’t there. She wasn’t there and he couldn’t think because he was hyperventilating and everything was  _ red _ with  _ blood _ and  _ oh god, WHERE WAS SHE?! _

It didn’t take Paul long to find her. Lying on the floor, eyes wide open and staring, sprawled out like a corpse. 

A corpse.

_ She’s dead. _

_ “No...”  _

_ (dead dead dead dead) _

He fell to his knees beside her. The bucket, attached to a loose cord and still spilling a little left over blood, had an even  _ more  _ ruby red substance on its underside. The same one was pouring out of a gash in her head. 

_ (she’s dead i killed her oh my god EMMA OH MY GOD!!!!!!) _

“Emma…” Paul shook her, attempting to rouse her, the baby blue dress smeared with crimson, and he couldn’t see straight because his world was red red red and his chest was so  _ tight  _ he couldn’t fucking  _ breathe _ and  _ Emma wasn’t breathing.  _ “E-Emma, Emma  _ wake up _ , wake  _ up, please—“ _

_ She’s dead and you know it. _

_ (deaddeaddeadikilledherEMMAEMMAEMMA) _

The world remained silent. Paul couldn’t see his fellow students any more, but he was sure they were there. Paul couldn’t hear his own voice anymore, but he knew he was screaming as he scrambled back to his feet. He was  _ screaming his fucking throat raw. _

_ (emma i’m so sorry emma emma i did this emma, i’m the reason this happened i’m the reason you’re dead i’m the reason you’re deAD I’M THE REASON YOU’RE DEAD) _

Mama was right. Mama was always right. He never should have come to this prom. This was too good to be true and now they’d both paid the price for it. That was what he got for thinking he belonged in a place like this, for believing that something like  _ him  _ should be let into such a place of  _ light _ . Mama knew what she was saying when she said he’d hurt Emma and he was a monster and oh, god he can  _ taste the fucking blood oh god! _

_ (i’m the reason you’re dead i’m i’m i’m) _

_ No. _

_ No. _

He didn’t do this.

_ Whoever pulled the rope did it. _

He had a feeling he knew who was behind this.

Little by little, the gym returned, but...it was just like before, like on Tuesday night. Somehow entirely visible and yet shrouded in pitch blackness, the students and teachers illuminated as if by spotlights.

_ You didn’t kill Emma, Paul. They did. _

Everyone stared silently in horror.

_ No, they’re laughing at you. _

They were laughing at him. They were laughing. They never — stopped —  _ laughing. _

_ Don’t you want them to  _ **_pay_ ** _ for it? _

He did.

But...it didn’t take an entire student body to pull a prank. Surely they were laughing because they didn’t think this was  _ real,  _ right? The prank was being played on them. Cover the scary guy with blood and have his date play dead for a few minutes, scare everyone out of their wits, and then it’d all be fine,  _ right? _

_ They didn’t deserve revenge to be paid unto them _ .

_ Fracture for fracture, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, burn for burn, wound for wound, life for life. _

Heat crawled up his spine, like a spider. The blood dripping down him felt freezing again. Paul could hurt them if he wanted to. He could tear this whole place apart and  _ nobody  _ could stop him. His vision whitened, he’d stopped breathing properly, he couldn’t think, he could only scream and cry, scream and  _ cry because this was their fault, it was THEIR FAULT!!! _

_ That’d show them. That’d show  _ **_h e r._ **

_ (nonononononono i can’t no nonono) _

...but he  _ could. _

He very much could do that.

Emma was dead. Emma was dead and it was his—

_ (IT’S THEIR FAULT) _

The insults started—

“Did you  _ actually  _ think we liked you?”

“Eat shit!”

Paul trembled. His eyes were wide, unblinking. His chest no longer rose and fell. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

“Fucking creep!”

“Why not  _ kill yourself?” _

Hot and cold flashes.

“Go to hell!”

“You're sick!”

_ (mama is that you? mama i’m scared i’m scared) _

“Stupid  _ bastard!” _

“You're  _ disgusting!” _

The power swelled. The spotlights got harsher.

“Why don't you just  **_D I E_ ** _?!” _

_ “STOP IT!!!” _

Paul  _ screeched,  _ crying for them to just shut up, to  _ shut up.  _

And they did. 

They had never even started, never opened their mouths. In the blink of an eye, _ every  _ student was simultaneously thrown backwards, all knocked off their feet by a furious burst of unseen  _ energy. _

_ Go on, Paul. You know you want to. _

_ (are you afraid of me now are you afraid are you FUCKING AFRAID) _

At once, everyone in the gym was dragged to their feet, frozen on the spot. A few screamed. Someone had started crying. Paul stared, and all of the doors in the gym slammed shut at once. Locked. He looked up, as if snapping to attention, and the lights at the top of the gym exploded. Aside from the glow of the fairy lights, which had slowly faded into a  _ sickly green _ , the gym was pitch black.

Slowly, his consciousness began ebbing away, the darkness clouding his vision. He stayed upright as best he could, taking Emma’s body in his arms, letting the Prom attendees free from their invisible binds in the same action. He carried her off the stage, the decorations tearing and shattering as he began approaching the doors, holding her close and...

_...I put her body down a few feet away from the stage, kneeling next to it. _

_ There was a lighting rig above the stage. I pulled it down. It was easy, I just had to loosen the bolts one by one, and it slipped down, splintering the wood and breaking into sharp pieces. The broken electric cables almost immediately set a fire, and I heard someone under the stage screaming. _

“LINDA,  _ LINDA MY LEGS ARE TRAPPED!!!” screamed the voice. “DON'T LEAVE ME! HELP ME!!!” _

_ The screaming became strangled and eventually silent as the fire consumed the stage. I knew he was dead. Linda Monroe had escaped out the back door, but I’d get to her soon enough. _

_ “Paul,  _ Paul— _ Now-Now let’s be reasonable...” I looked up, and saw an old man. It was that teacher from earlier, the one that made the class apologise to  _ him.  _ That was a bad idea on his part. “Open these doors, and—” _

_ “No,” I said calmly, and with a flick of my hand, I threw him over my shoulder, into the fire. I relished his cry of pain as a stray piece of debris impaled him through the torso. There was a sickening squelch. He died slowly. _

_ I was back on my feet, then, stepping over Emma's body, watching the students and teachers alike scatter. How funny, they thought they could get away. I laughed at them. I pulled the broken (but still charged) cables out of the wreck that was once the stage, and began to clear my path with them, whipping and electrocuting people as I went. Dance! Dance! You're at Prom! I could smell the satisfying stench of burning flesh as they writhed in agony. Some of the decorations caught fire from this, too. _

_ That seemed like enough for now, and my path was clear, so I put the cables down (I watched a few more people get shocked, bursting into flame) and headed towards the main exit, throwing tables and people out of my way (some of their backs broke against the wall with a loud crunching sound) until I was finally at the doors. I pushed them open, and then closed them behind me.  _

_ The cold night air was refreshing, as was the smoke.  _

_ There was someone standing there before me, watching the school burn with tears in his eyes. It was... _

...Bill.

_ (ohMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGODWHATDIDIDOWHAT) _

It was Bill.

Paul looked down at his hands. There was still blood on them.  _ More  _ blood? He looked up, and Bill was staring at him in abject terror. Paul shook, his bottom lip quivering.

_ (what have i done what did i do what dididowhatdidi) _

“What…” Paul began to ask. He noticed he was outside and oh god  _ when  _ had he gone _ outside?  _ The last thing he remembered doing was locking the doors of the gym and throwing people about with his powers a little bit before he blacked out. But…no, he was still conscious, but the world was a complete dark void.

“Paul...I...” Bill began, but was clearly lost for words, and Paul  _ didn’t know why. _ “Why...?”

_ (what did i do what) _

_ What you had to. _

Then it hit him, and he remembered _ everything.  _

Emma’s lifeless body.

Gary, crushed, burning alive. 

Mr. Hidgens, a pipe stuck through his torso. 

Students jolting horribly as they were electrocuted. 

Bones snapping. Screams of terror.  _ Burning bodies. _

_ (it’s not real it’s not real it’s just a nightmare paul just a nightmare just just wake up wake up WAKE UP) _

_ You  _ have  _ woken up. _

Paul turned around and felt his stomach drop. The  _ entire school  _ had gone up in flames. He sensed no life coming from the building. 

_ (oh myGODOHMYGODOHMYGODOHFUCKOHFUCKOHF) _

Everyone was dead.

* * *

_ Saturday 28th, April 1990. 22:00. _

Bill had rushed his dinner that night so he could make it to the school on time, not entering and instead observing the whole thing from outside. Peeking through the windows of the room, he’d watched the night wistfully. He’d cried when Paul and Emma shared their first kiss to “True Colours” by Cyndi Lauper, though he wasn’t sure why. He stayed all night, long enough to watch the Prom ballots be handed out. 

Long enough to see Zoey swap in another stack of papers. 

That had him suspicious, but he hadn’t thought too hard about it then. That was, until Paul and Emma were officially voted King and Queen, and Bill noticed the bucket on the rafters. An awful dread twisted his stomach.

The pieces fell together. Heknew  _ exactly _ where this was going. 

Blinded by anxiety and fear, he tried to get into the building, to put a stop to it, but Hidgens had stopped him, accused him of his suspicions, of trying to ruin Paul’s confidence — “Let that young man have  _ one _ night!” he’d chastised the teen, despite the sincerity in the panicked boy’s eyes — and locked Bill out. 

Bill was powerless to stop the bucket of blood falling over Paul.

When the metal bucket swung down a few seconds after and struck Emma on the head, Bill  _ screamed.  _ He watched, almost in slow motion, as she collapsed, her body convulsing for a few moments, before she just  _ stopped,  _ lying unmoving on the stage. Bill fell to the pavement and vomited. He prayed she wasn’t dead, chanted  _ It’s not real, it’s not real  _ in his head, somehow hoping it would convince himself, but Paul’s reaction told him all he needed, and dreaded, to know.  _ Emma was dead. _

He couldn’t have ever predicted what would happen next.

Paul had  _ screamed.  _ An awful, drawn out noise, a  _ wail  _ that felt like every insult anyone had  _ ever _ had thrown at him had hit him at once, finally tipping him over the edge. Then, he stared ahead for a few seconds, an eerily blank expression on his face. The blood drained from Bill’s face as Paul picked up Emma’s body and walked off the stage with her, carefully setting her back down.

There was a smile on his face, then. It wasn’t. the same smile he wore when he was crowned Prom King. It was so unnaturally wide it nearly cleaved his face in two, and his eyes —  _ God, his eyes  _ — were so wide and staring they looked as though they threatened to  _ fall out _ . 

With that look on his face, and the dripping blood, Paul looked like something out of Bill’s worst nightmares.

And then the entire prom was thrust into Hell.

Bill wanted to look away, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the gruesome scene. Paul — no, whatever that  _ thing  _ was — killed  _ everyone  _ in there, and he looked... _ happy _ about it. Joyous, even. Bill swore he met eyes with  _ it _ at some point, and  _ that  _ was enough to send him fleeing across the front yard of the school, tripping and stumbling as he heard double doors opened behind him.

_ Oh my god oh my god he’s going to kill me!  _ Bill stumbled to the ground, hands over his head, as the crackling burning got more intense.  _ He’s going to kill me he’s going to kill me he’s going to... _

He whipped around, hearing footsteps, and Paul was standing there. Completely drenched in blood that was not his own, trembling, and breathing sharply. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

“ _ What… _ ” His voice was choked and hoarse.

He looked so  _ confused.  _ Did he even realise what he just did?

“Paul...I... _ why _ ...?” Bill managed to say, trying to rationalise his thoughts. What the  _ hell  _ had he just witnessed? His classmate going on a  _ killing spree  _ with his _ demonic powers?  _ This couldn’t be real, this  _ had  _ to be a nightmare. Everyone was dead. 

_ Emma was dead. _

Paul didn’t have a response for him, it seemed. He was staring at the school, his eyes wide with the same terror that Bill had felt. It felt so  _ wrong,  _ but...Bill felt sympathy for him. Whatever was going on with Paul, it was far bigger than either of them understood. Whatever it was that possessed him to  _ do  _ all of that...no, that couldn’t have been Paul. The Paul he knew would  _ not _ do that.

“I’m...I’m so sorry, I—” Bill stammered, trying to approach Paul to comfort him. He didn’t make it within three feet before Paul turned his head, an invisible force pushing him back through the air a few meters. 

There was alarm on Paul’s face. He didn’t mean to do that.

When Bill recuperated, all he could see was Paul running, running as  _ fast _ as his legs would carry him, down towards the town, towards the  _ road,  _ where...a car was waiting for him. 

Linda Monroe’s car.

The vehicle, which had been idling on the side of the road out of sight of the school, whipped around down the road,  _ towards Paul. _

_ Oh my god she’s going to run him down. _

“LINDA,  _ NO!!!” _

Bill  _ screamed _ at the top of his lungs, his voice cracking, running towards them as if he had any power to stop them. It was futile. There was no way that Bill could make it in time, and he watched in terror as the car reached Paul first. The boy flinched away from it. 

The car never hit him.

Inches away from mowing Paul down, the car’s front bonnet suddenly crumpled against  _ nothing, _ as if it had hit a brick wall. Then it... _ flipped.  _ Had Bill seen it in a movie, he might have thought it was an impressive stunt, but this was  _ real life _ . It flipped right over Paul’s head, completely missing him.

He could hear Linda’s bloodcurdling scream as the engine ignited upon landing. 

Paul looked as though he was about to faint, but he kept... _ running. _

Linda couldn’t get out of the car in time. The flames consumed it.

Not knowing what to do, Bill followed Paul at a  _ safe  _ distance. He may have regained his mind, but this power he had demonstrated...it was out of control.

There was loud  _ crash,  _ and Bill flinched. He dared not glance behind him as the high school creaked and collapsed, burying the bodies of all those who had wronged poor, helpless Paul Matthews.


	14. What does it cost to be kind?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where it all ended.

_Saturday 28th, April 1990. 22:32._

_(runrunrunrunrUNRUNRUN)_

Paul’s feet moved so fast he looked at risk of falling, which he _had_ a few times, and he moved without any kind of direction, any kind of _sense,_ just a desperation to _hide._

_(you killed them you killed them all they’ll arrest you you’ll rot in jail you’ll rot in hell paul in hell)_

Every little thing startled him, every little sound, every movement, everything was _so much, so loud_ . There were sirens blaring somewhere. He could still hear and smell the fire, _oh god he could still smell it_ . The _blood_ and the _fire_ and the _bodies_ and the stench of _death_ by _his hand_ s.

_(the wicked will not inherit the kingdom of god)_

Finally, he stopped short. He was in such a state, he didn’t realise he had reached home. All the lights were still on, and the warm glow seemed so _comforting_ , so Mama was still awake. 

“Mama,” he breathed. He didn’t even think about their argument before Prom. He was operating on pure instinct, feeling _numb_ as he limped into the house. Mama would make it better, she always made it better. She would keep him safe.

_(forgive me o lord forgive me)_

The house flickered with candlelight. Paul felt so _wrong_ returning here. It was a pretty, peaceful scene. Mama sat at her seat by the kitchen table, sewing away, even if she looked a little…troubled. It was warm. 

“Mama, I’m home,” he croaked, standing pitifully in the doorway of the room.

The woman at the kitchen table startled for a second, and then froze upon seeing her son. Her bloody, sad son. 

“Oh, Paul...” She rose to her feet, dropping her work on the floor and rushed to him, overcome with emotion. “Oh, my poor _boy,_ what did they—”

“I-I’m so _sorry,_ Mama, I should have listened to you...” Paul trembled and looked up at her, his eyes suddenly full of tears. “They _laughed_ at me, a-and-and _I—”_

A sob choked his sentence. It was all too much.

Without hesitation, Mama pulled him into her embrace, not minding the blood smearing across her white nightgown. Maybe their relationship had been fraught for the past week, but all of that seemed to have _vanished_ in that moment. 

“Oh, my poor boy,” she said tearfully, stroking his hair.

“I-I did something _a-awful,_ Mama, I-I—” Paul buried his face in the crook of her neck, body wracked with grief. He couldn’t even find it in himself to speak any longer. “I’m _sorry, I’m sorry…_ ” 

“ _Shh, shh, shh_ , it’s all right now, Paul,” she spoke in a whisper, such a _comforting_ whisper, like music to his ears as she guided him to the floor, just to sit in her arms. Just like before, before all _this._ Before highschool, when they were both happy. “I’ve got you, you’re safe now, you’re _home_ now.”

“ _I’m so sorry._ ”

“Mama’s got you,”

“I love you, Mama,”

“I love you too, Paul.”

And for a few perfect moments, they sat in silence. He could have stayed like that forever.

* * *

_Saturday 28th, April 1990. 22:37._

Bill had followed Paul across half the town. It was _hard_ to keep up; Paul had a long stride and was practically sprinting. That, and Bill _had_ to keep his distance.

This… _thing_ , this _power_ that Paul had was so strong that every little thing seemed to set another chain of disasters off. Fire hydrants had burst open, walls came crashing down, cars swerved, streetlights _exploded._ He didn’t stick around to observe the damage, but he _knew_ it was more than the town could handle. 

Would there even be a Hatchetfield _left_ at the end of the night?

The path of destruction led Bill down a familiar street, and at the end of it, the Matthews house. Sure enough, bloody splotches littered the sidewalk, all the way towards the residence. The street was silent.

Then someone cried out in pain.

“Paul...?” Bill muttered in disbelief, realising the scream came from the house. _“Paul!”_

Ignoring the fact that his legs ached and that he was completely breathless from following Paul around town, Bill ran towards that house faster than he had ever run in his life, barging in through the front door, eyes darting wildly around. The sight he happened upon was _horrible._

Paul was crumpled on the floor, his shaking hand raised to the woman — Paul’s _mother,_ Bill realized — approaching him, who clutched a bloody knife. She was grimacing in pain; so was the boy. Neither of them saw Bill. 

_What’d she do to him...?_

“Mama, no, _no...”_

Bill could feel the power emanating from Paul, the same power that pushed him back a half hour earlier. The same power that exploded the lightbulb in the showers. The same power that _tore apart the school._

_“Mama, no!”_

The teen clenched his outstretched hand into a fist, and the woman doubled over, grabbing at her chest. 

_What’s he doing to her?!_

“Paul-Paul, _sto-stop it...”_ She dropped her knife, the weapon falling to the floor with a dull, metallic noise. “D-Don’t- _Don’t—...!”_

There was a gasp, and just like that, she _stopped breathing._

More blood bloomed on her nightgown on top of the maroon stains already there, like a fresh blotch of paint. Within seconds, she had collapsed on the floor, unmoving.

_Oh my god._

Bill wanted to run away. Paul had killed friend and foe alike, Paul had killed his own _mother,_ he wasn’t _safe..._

But he didn’t run. 

Paul trembled in pain, face frozen in a silent scream, his tears cutting pale tracks through the blood on his face. He looked like he had in the showers on Monday: terrified, small, _alone_.

“Paul...” Bill approached him, and he could feel Paul try to push him away again, but the attempt was so feeble it felt like a summer breeze. “I’m sor— _Mother of God—!”_

He hadn’t noticed it at first, but as Paul turned over, Bill saw that there was _more blood_ gushing from a deep wound in his back. Bill didn’t even think about it as rushed over, cradling Paul in his arms.

“I’m-I’m scared...” Paul gasped, painfully. It was barely visible, but a small stream of blood trickled from the corner of Paul’s mouth as he spoke. His voice was completely shot from crying and screaming. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. His eyes were half-closed and bloodshot. 

_(imsorrybillimsosorryikilledthem all i killed them allikilledthemoh god forgiveme)_

Bill had never felt so helpless in his life. His classmate— no, his _friend_ was dying in his arms, and he…

Oh _god,_ he could _hear_ Paul’s _frantic_ last thoughts. He thought he had been imagining it before, but he could _hear them_. 

“Oh my god, I-I—” He tried to speak, but quickly went quiet as the power of the thoughts _pounded_ in his head. They _screamed,_ they wept, manic and frightened

_(imdying i deservethis i’m going to HELL im going to BURN)_

and angry and pained. Bill felt sick again, but Paul’s weakness made him brave. He had to be brave. 

_You’re not going to Hell,_ he thought, hoping, _praying_ that Paul heard him, _You’ll be okay, Paul, you’ll be okay._

Paul whipped his head from side to side, beginning to writhe. Bill held him close. “It hurts,” Paul gasped, looking past Bill up to the ceiling, “it _hu-u-urtsss...”_

“I’m here, Paul,” Bill spoke again and Paul appeared to settle, but he still stared up past him, shaking, eyes huge and watering. “I’m here, it’s okay, y-you’re—” Bill’s bottom lip trembled, his voice wavered, but he blinked back the tears, “You’re going to be—”

_(IT HURTS IT HURTS)_

“You— Oh my _g-god...”_ Bill let out a sob, now feeling Paul’s pain on top of his own. It hurt. It _hurt._

_(i wan t my mama i killed my mama i killed her she killed me i killed her i killed her)_

It started raining outside...

“Ma-ma...” 

Paul finally stopped moving, holding Bill’s hand as tightly as he could manage.

...or was it hailing?

_(i killed her im a monster she loved me and i killed he r)_

_She hurt you, Paul,_ Bill thought, and Paul’s eyes regained a touch of awareness. _You were just defending yourself from her and that’s fine._

The thoughts died down for a second, and so did the hail. For the entire time he’d known Paul, Bill had always had some kind of understanding that nobody became like Paul without some kind of influence. He now knew that Laurie Matthews was the root cause of all of his heartache.

And he had done nothing to help him. 

_(e mma)_

Bill realised they were both crying again. Oh god, _Emma._ It was too painful to even consider.

_(emma im so sorry im so sorry)_

Paul was dying. He was sad, alone, and in pain, and what was Bill doing? Sitting there, uselessly, crying too. Bill didn’t want Paul’s last moments to be so lonely, god knew he’d had enough of that in his life. Wasn’t that what he had set out to do on Monday night? _To help?_ But what would make Paul happy? 

Bill did the first thing that came to mind, unable to stop thinking about Emma.

_“I-If this wo-orld makes you crazy, and you’ve taken all you can bear,”_ he began to sing, voice cracking, remembering the song Paul and Emma danced to at Prom.

Paul’s head rolled back, his expression turning serene, only barely still aware. Bill had seen that expression before. The teen was bleeding out in his kitchen, but in his mind, he was back at his senior prom, having his first dance with the girl he loved.

“ _Em...ma...”_

Paul’s voice was almost impossible to hear.

_“You call me up, because you know I’ll be there…”_

Paul Matthews died with a smile on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God.
> 
> So, that's the last one, folks, I can't believe we're done here.
> 
> Well, not done - I'm sure you've noticed I put 15 chapters in. That's gonna be our epilogue. But that was the last chapter of the story itself, and I sincerely hope you guys enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.


	15. The Closing of the case of The Black Prom Incident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John McNamara received the answers he sought.

_ Wednesday 20th, June 2018. 19:06. _

John McNamara was not someone who was easily disturbed.

He had contended with (and put a stop to) multiple potential apocalypses, peeked through the veil between dimensions, and had broken up a good few deranged cults in his time. He knew nothing could bother him anymore. He  _ thought _ nothing could bother him anymore.

But the Black Prom Incident disturbed him.

And not just the incident itself. He knew well enough that something within P.E.I.P.’s jurisdiction had occurred on that night — a disaster of that magnitude didn’t just happen for no reason — but hearing the full story had put this whole case into a troubling new light. It wasn’t some faceless eldritch evil, some demonic lord hellbent on destruction. No, it was just...an unfortunate teenage boy, with an unfortunate gift.

Or curse.

Paul Matthews was  _ not _ a bad person. John had gathered that much from Bill’s tale. He was just a kid with a bad home life, and a bad school life.  _ Something  _ had taken hold of his fragile psyche, and shattered it into pieces. 

“John?”

His head darted up at the voice. He had been staring out of the window of the P.E.I.P. office, long after he watched Bill pull away in his car. Back home to his daughter.

_ Maybe Paul would’ve had kids too. _

“John, are you okay?” 

John felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up to see his own husband.

_ Paul and Emma could have had something like we do. _

“Xander...sorry, I...I was just...” He glanced back at the window, as if he’d find an answer in his reflection. “...thinking.”

“Ah...” The smile Xander was wearing slowly faded, setting off a pang of guilt in John. “So...how did the interview go?”

How could John even answer that? He now knew what he set out to gain knowledge of, that would be ‘good.’ But, he didn’t feel any  _ better  _ for it, so...

“I know the whole story now,” was the response McNamara settled on. “The case...doesn’t need to be reopened. There’s nothing to be done here other than to...take it as a cautionary tale.”

“Come on, John, I know you don’t  _ really _ mean that.” Xander did have a point. Truth be told, John wanted to know  _ everything  _ there was to know about this case, but...he wasn’t sure he could stomach it after today.

Xander met his husband’s eyes. “But it does make you think, doesn’t it?”

“Oh?”

“This isn’t even remotely a unique incident,” he continued, and John’s interest was piqued. “There are  _ two _ other very similar cases in P.E.I.P.’s files. I was looking while you were interviewing him...” 

Xander had admitted to only really showing an interest because his husband did, but when he sunk himself into research like that, he was  _ committed.  _ John listened intently, eager for more information.

“There was one in ‘79, and another in ‘99,” Xander explained, “all three cases centered around teenagers with unstable home lives that got bullied in school. All three teenagers involved were born ten years apart from each other. Only difference is the other two were girls, and about a year younger than our subject here.”

“So that means—”

“An incident like that might occur again.” This time, it was Xander’s turn to stare out the window. “Or maybe it won’t. It might have already happened. There’s no way of really knowing.”

And there really wasn’t. It just wasn’t feasible to look into all birth records every ten years, to do research into  _ every  _ child born in those years, and just  _ happen _ to check if they had telekinetic powers. It seemed that every time something like this came up, it was nigh-on  _ impossible _ to predict. Never mind  _ prevent. _

“I’d...been meaning to ask you something,” Xander continued, a hesitant tone in his voice, “if you don’t mind.”

John’s heart stuttered, his stomach churning with sudden anxiety. “And what’s that?”

“Why look into this?” 

A beat. McNamara searched his husband’s eyes, recognizing the worry, the  _ fear.  _ His own mind went blank as Xander’s words ran through his head over and over, like a broken record.

“...what?”

Xander sighed deeply, a hand resting on John’s back, rubbing in soothing circles. “John, this whole case got closed years ago. Why the sudden interest? Why  _ now?” _

John never thought he’d have to explain it. He never  _ wanted  _ to. The simple truth was hard to come to terms with, his motivation not the least bit altruistic.

The Black Prom Incident, the incident in which 114 citizens of Hatchetfield perished in one night, was the night that McNamara had lost his family. His father, Kenneth, and Sam, his older brother. After that night, he had been swept away by his mother out of state, and had not spared a single thought towards Hatchetfield. Until recently.

McNamara never would've guessed his brother had a personal hand in the ordeal.

“That’s...I’d just...” John found his voice and hesitated, frowning. “Rather not say. I know, I know, I shouldn’t keep secrets from you, but— this is...”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Xander hushed, pulling his lover into a warm embrace, “you don’t have to tell me if it doesn’t feel right.”

John exhaled and closed his eyes, melting into the man, his troubles forgotten for the time being. “Thank you, Xander.”

On his way home that night, John could not get the story out of his mind. Bill had told him about how Hatchetfield slowly put itself back together, how hordes of parents moved out of the town, unable to face living in that place without their child, how every day was a new funeral for months and months on end.

“Did they bury Paul?” he had found himself asking Bill one day, internally cursing himself for being such a bleeding heart. 

“I was the only person who was left. I was the only person in the school who mourned him,” Bill said solemnly, staring down at his hands. “I was the only person there to send him off, other than the preacher. They buried him next to his mother.”

McNamara felt sick.

_ “Ah...” _

Then, some kind of inspiration had just  _ struck  _ Bill, and he kept going; “And- And it’s been years now, b-but it’s still fresh in my head. I go there to replace the flowers on his grave whenever I can...” 

(It was at that moment McNamara had decided he certainly did admire Bill.)

“Someone had written ‘Paul Matthews burns in Hell’ on it, I swear to  _ God.”  _ Bill stared up at him for a few seconds, his expression unreadable but  _ intense. _ “A-And it’s not like I don’t  _ get it,  _ you’d hate someone that killed your family that much too, right?” 

The two men had sat in silence for a few heavy moments, and McNamara wondered if Bill could see in his  _ soul. _

John was still trying to process everything. Defacing a  _ grave?  _ This kid couldn’t catch a break even in death. 

“But Paul wasn’t a bad  _ kid,”  _ Bill finally spoke up again, his voice shaky, _ “I _ should have— no, no we  _ all  _ should have done more. Been kinder to him at school. Told him that what his mom was doing to him wasn’t okay, called CPS, just to have done  _ something _ before he got to that point—!”

And then Bill had broken down sobbing. McNamara sat with him until he calmed down, took him to get a coffee, and then, with a heavy heart, sent him on his way.

_ Paul Matthews burns in Hell. _

That phrase had shaken John to his very core.

Paul, who was happy to leave his senior prom early so his Mama wouldn’t worry. Paul, who was actually quite sensitive and intelligent once you got to know him. Paul, who had only hit his growth spurt in the last year of his short seventeen years on earth. Paul, whose eyes sparkled when he looked at his crush. Paul, who got pushed too far, and the fallout made  _ everyone pay for it _ .

They thought he belonged in Hell. According to Bill, Paul thought the exact same thing as he died. Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. There was no real way of knowing. Wherever he had ended up, all John could do was pray that Paul’s eternal sleep was a sound one.

In the end, John couldn’t find it in himself to hate Paul Matthews. No matter how hard he tried.

He needed to visit that grave some time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And... It is done. The final chapter of this fic comes to a close...
> 
> But this is not the end! You might've noticed, or I may have already told you, but I am NOT done with this AU. I plan to write a longer form one-shot as a sort of sequel that will expand a little more on the lore of this AU, so look forward to that, but not any time soon. I'll be working on other projects with my buddy aspiringaspie, who was absolutely integral to this fic even being written in the first place, and has stuck by my side editing it for the whole thing.
> 
> And lastly, thank you ALL for the support! All the comments I've received have brightened my day every time I see them, and I hope you all enjoyed what started out as a silly self-indulgent fic, and ended as something that a lot of people ended up loving!
> 
> Edit: I have now begun writing the one-shot sequel, but also, I had some ideas for expanding on backstory, as well as a few post-canon stories. They will be told at this link;
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/25570528/chapters/62052700
> 
> Enjoy!


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